


Long Live Us

by Twisted_Slinky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Talia Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evil Peter Hale, Gen, Hurt Stiles, Jackson Needs a Hug, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Slash, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2218014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky/pseuds/Twisted_Slinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some can see him, some can hear him, some can even feel him, but he remains a ghost. Stiles thought he was done with the whole 'half-dead' bit, but a resident evil doer had different plans. Which somehow result in Talia Hale as his spiritual Yoda, Derek as his anchor to a life he isn't living anymore, and Jackson, of all people, as his...something. Canon divergent past season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No One Can Walk Away Truly Alive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tryslora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/gifts).



> Written for bigbang_mixup for tryslora's wonderful mix "The Reckless and the Brave" (http://8tracks.com/tryslora/the-reckless-and-the-brave). The character and pairings for this fic were almost entirely inspired by Tryslora's list of faves, so hats off to her for inspiring me to go down this path.
> 
> This sticks mostly to canon up until the end of the season 3 finale, where I begin my twisting and turning, so it addresses canon character deaths several times. The ships are rather slow-burn, and the story is mostly pre-slash.
> 
> Also, this is my fill for the Wild ("Trapped between realities") square on my h/c bingo card.
> 
> I wanted to mention that while I actually like both Malia and Kira, they don't really serve a purpose in this story, so neither of them are featured.

 

Victory is sweet. Or so he's been told. He's reached the conclusion that victory is about as sweet as that lemonade he and Scott attempted to sell when they were kids. And life? Hands out plenty of lemons and not enough fucking sugar.

"We should talk. Mom said we should talk, but not about..." It's Scott trying to fill the silence this time. "It might help," he finishes lamely, shaking his head and looking more like 'old Scott' than 'True Alpha Scott'. "We have to _try_."

No one counters him, corrects him, or joins him.

Stiles wants to clap his hands together and begin a long babbling lecture on the difference between serial killers and spree killers, just to follow Scott's lead. Instinct points him in that direction, but for once he keeps his mouth shut, because nothing he says will make a difference. Especially for Scott, because Scott can't hear him.

Stiles winces at the thought _. Shitty lemons._

He reaches out, holding his hand right over his best friend's shoulder, then pulls back at the last minute, folding his arms over his chest again. And turning to watch the bed, like everyone else in the room. Which, that in mind, he's certain there aren't supposed be visitors in this ward at this time of night, but chalk it up the powers of one Melissa McCall.

She, Melissa, visited. A few times. Always with that look on her face, like it's her Scotty on the bed.

It's not, obviously, because Scott is right where he belongs, slouching in the uncomfortable chair pulled too close to the bed, fingers digging holes into one corner of a pillow. Lydia's still there too, has been for hours, moving to sit on the edge of the mattress after Isaac's arrival. None of them takes the recliner. Even though he's left for a coffee and a clean-up, that seat is still clearly Dad's.

Stiles sighs. The sound must be louder than he anticipates, because Lydia lifts her chin, fear and hope mingling in her wet eyes as she looks around the room.

"He's back with us," she says, quietly.

Scott and Isaac both straighten, suddenly alert.

"What did he say?" Scott asks, eager.

Isaac is always to the point. "Did he find a way to fix this?"

Stiles hates this, this _between_. He almost wishes he'd kept his mouth shut the first time he'd awoken. That way Lydia wouldn't have heard. Wouldn't have told their friends. (Hope will only make them suffer longer.) Instead, in that moment of confusion, he'd panicked and told them - told _Lydia_ , at least - everything he knew. Admittedly, not much other than, _"Hey, I can't feel my toes, because I'm not in my body."_

Lydia ignores the questions. "Stiles?"

Stiles steps out from behind Scott, careful not to touch him, and stops at the end of the bed. There's a bag at the side of the metal frame, slowly filling, and despite himself, he's embarrassed. Not that anyone might ever imagine Stiles Stilinski is big on maintaining his dignity, but there's something completely wrong with his closest friends not only seeing him mostly naked but also watching him pee in his sleep.

He swallows hard to keep himself from commenting and forces himself to look at the body on the bed. Pale and long and skinny. There are purple bags under his eyes, but he doesn't appear to be injured. Just sleeping, if he's prone to sleeping with a tangle of tubes and tape. Truthfully, he looks better than he has in weeks, and isn't that a kick in the pants?

Dr. Befuddled, as Stiles mentally refers to his attending, mentioned his body was breathing on its own, which is nice since it doesn't seem to be doing much else. Like waking.

Stiles spent an hour straight just trying to _will_ himself back into his body after hearing the the good doctor. He spent another hour sitting in the hallway outside the room, angry-crying to himself, hoping that Lydia wouldn't be able to hear him from there.

Lydia. Who hears. Because, duh, banshee. And because, duh, he's basically dead. It isn't a comforting realization.

Stiles puts a hand over his mouth to stifle a desperate laugh and quickly recovers from his momentary bout of hysteria. "Yeah, Lydia. I'm here."

"You went away," she accuses. A tear runs down her cheek, countering her snappy tone. It's perfect, that tear, just like the rest of her, and Stiles wants to remind her of how pretty she is when she cries, but he doesn't. "Don't do that again," she tacks on.

"Sorry. I just needed some time. Plus, I figured you could use a break from Stiles-radio."

"Stiles?" Scott this time. Stiles smiles down at him, even though his friend can't see him. Or feel him. Or hear him. Scott clears his throat, looking at the empty body. "Man, I just...You just need to stay with us, okay? Deaton is looking into this. He's going to figure out what happened. You just...just hold on until then."

"I don't seem to be going anywhere, buddy."

"He'll hold on," Lydia answers for him, and the way she says it, Stiles is pretty sure there's a threating ' _or else_ ' hanging in the air.

Isaac leans forward in his chair, looking as much a wreck as Scott. Stiles doesn't think for a minute this trip to the hospital is the reason why, though he's still kind of touched that Isaac's taken a moment from his own grieving to visit, and to check on Scott. Stiles wracks his brain, trying to remember if he's ever really considered Isaac a real friend in the past and trying to figure out why the guy is now on his short list of closest companions. Facing death brings people together, he supposes, well, the people it doesn't actually _kill._

Allison should be sitting there. As soon as Stiles thinks it, his eyes are burning. Allison should be sitting there, so Isaac is there for her, in her place.

"Thanks, Isaac," Stiles mutters.

Isaac doesn't hear, and Lydia doesn't do more than raise a brow in slight confusion. Stiles clears his throat, which is a weird concept in itself, because he knows that scratchy feeling probably isn't real, that he shouldn't be 'feeling' anything. But he does anyway, the same way he can hear himself breathing, even though there shouldn't be a need for it.

"Lydia, I need to ask you guys to do something for me."

"Is he talking?" Scott asks.

Lydia glares, and Scott quiets, waiting patiently.

"Oh, yeah, big bad Alpha," Stiles snorts. Then he sobers, back on track. Turns out being stuck as a spirit works better than Adderall at keeping him focused. In fact, being overly focused is part of the problem, which is weird, considering how off-the-tracks he's been over the past month. "You haven't told my dad I'm...like this."

"I wasn't sure if I should."

"No, you did good. I don't want him to know yet. Or Melissa. I don't...She doesn't need to know either. It's better that way."

Stiles eases himself down onto the bed beside Lydia, and it's strange. Even though the blankets don't wrinkle and the mattress doesn't give with his weight, he can still _feel_ it beneath him. He can feel _his own_ covered feet at his back. He can feel Lydia Martin's hand beside his, even if she can't feel him, but he knows if he squeezes her fingers he'll pass right through. And be reminded of how _not real_ he is.

Lydia frowns, then looks from Scott to Isaac. "He doesn't want us to tell his dad or Melissa what's happening."

"I want you guys to _promise_ not to tell them," Stiles corrects.

"Why?" she asks. When he's quiet, she lets out a sigh. "He wants us to promise we won't tell them," she lets the others know. "He's an idiot and thinks his father would be better off thinking he's in a mystical sleep instead of stuck between the world of the living and the dead, and, no, Scott, you can't tell your mom because you know she'll tell his dad."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Nice ad-libbing, Jennifer Love Hewitt. But, yeah, that's the gist. When did you get so insightful?"

Lydia shoots his body a vacantly cheerful grin. "I'm a genius, remember?"

"This isn't right."

Scott's declaration is quiet, but it's full of outrage directed at absolutely no one. His head dips down, and he catches it in both his palms, covering his eyes. It's Scotty-patented despair, and Stiles really wishes he could make it go away, but he can't. He knows before Scott lifts his head again that the next outburst is going to be louder.

"This isn't right!" Scott snaps, aiming it at Stiles' body. "We _won._ You won, Stiles! You shouldn't be in this bed, and we shouldn't be here. This is too much, too soon, and it's not freaking fair that I'm your best friend, and I can't even _hear_ you, even though you're right _here_! I can't do this without you...I can't lose both of you."

Isaac stands up, arms shaking, as if he wants to punch someone, and his eyes lowered. Stiles half expects him to leave the room, but he crosses it instead. The other werewolf is at his Alpha's side a second later. With a moment's hesitation, he reaches out, touches Scott's shoulder, and stills, as if the contact alone grounds him.

It's not much, but it's enough to pull Scott's attention back.

"Isaac'll take care of him, won't he?" Stiles asks. "You both will, right?"

Lydia swallows hard enough for him to notice then nods once.

Scott and Isaac are already looking at the door before Stiles even notices they have company. When he turns, he sees Derek Hale stepping inside the room, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. And Derek is staring back at him. Staring at _him_ , not the body on the bed.

"You can see me?" Stiles tilts forward on the balls of his feet, almost off the bed in excitement, and, Jeeze, wouldn't being known as the Clumsy Casper just be the cherry on top of this _spectacular_ day? "You can! How the hell can Sourwolf see me and you guys can't?"

Lydia slides off the mattress, eyes wide. "He says you can see him?"

"Of course he can!" For emphasis, Stiles waves his arms in the air, and, yup, there's that look of annoyance that Derek wears just for Stiles. "Why are you just standing there? Dude, answer her already!"

Derek's eyebrows furrow in confusion, and it clicks. Derek can see him, but he can't hear him.

"Shit... He can't hear me, Lydia."

But Derek's eyes are now following his lips, and he frowns. "He's right."

Stiles tilts his head, smiling humorlessly up at the heavens. "Why isn't it surprising that you can lip-read? That must be covered in Creeper 101."

"What are you guys talking about?" Scott asks. "How can _Derek_ see him?"

"I..." Derek shakes his head in apology. "I'm not sure. Deaton didn't mention that was a possibility when he sent me, and I didn't realize...He said Stiles should come with me. To meet my mother."

And there's that. _Oh yeah._ Stiles runs a hand down his face, frustrated. Somewhere between realizing Lydia could hear him and alerting their local druid of a disturbance in the force, they were handed the fact that 'BTW, there have been a few unplanned resurrections in town.' Stiles doesn't think it is a leap to believe in a complete lack of coincidence there, but as to what it all means...Who knows?

Maybe Talia Hale does, now that he thinks about it.

Lydia slides off the bed. "You think she can help him?"

Derek doesn't really answer, just stares past Lydia, and Stiles isn't really sure what his problem is, but the guy looks grumpy, despite the fact that his world isn't the one falling apart. His is the world coming back together. The one where his mother is alive now.

Stiles mouths the words slowly to make sure he can follow: " _You. Look. Constipated._ "

Derek's stare turns into a glare, and he shakes his head in annoyance. "I think she might know what happened to him."

"Wow, lots of long sentences from him tonight," Stiles notes, and Lydia shoots him an amused glance, but there's no heart in it.

It's Isaac who skips to the 'how'. "Will you need his body? I mean, people will notice if he just disappears."

"He's traveled without it already," Derek says, and without so much as a goodbye, he turns, walking back out the open door.

"What does that even mean?" Lydia asks.

"Not really sure," Stiles replies. But that's not quite true. There are some memories tugging free now. They're gray and blurry, but they're there. "Stupid cryptic messages."

It's been over twenty-four hours since he laid down in his own bed in his own room, thinking the battle had been won. Thinking he didn't know how he'd ever be able to sleep with all that had happened, all that he'd done, running through his head. But, he'd been out in minutes, exhausted...And something happened between then and his body being found that afternoon. Something bad.

Something he's forgotten.

"You're going to be okay," Lydia assures, not for the first time. And she says it with that determination that makes her easy to believe.

Derek's shadow darkens the doorway once more, an aggravated grimace on his face. " _Stiles!"_

Stiles jumps slightly. "Yeah, coming!" He gives the room a glance. "Well, you guys know where to find me, I guess."

Lydia frowns slightly, and it says enough. Stiles has been haunting her for longer than he's been a ghost, and he knows what that expression means: _'we don't know this Talia woman' 'we don't know if she's who she says she is' 'how could anyone be better at solving a problem than me?'._ But all she says is, "Be careful, Stiles."

"Will do, Lyds."

Stiles doesn't have to look over his shoulder; he can feel Scott's tension and knows his friend is about to argue against this. But something weird happens. Scott doesn't say a word. Stiles does look back now, and he sees Scott's head hanging slightly as he watches the body on the bed. Scott can't see or hear or feel him. To Scott, his best friend will still be in this room, no matter what he's told.

Stiles lets out a breath and follows Derek Hale out of the room.

* * *

_The smoke burns. His eyes, his nostrils. His body burns, but only where it's been hit. The wolfsbane-laced ammo goes deep, shreds at his insides, but Derek's down, not out. Not until he sees her on the other end of the gun..._

_No. This isn't real. It's a dream. And for a moment, he drifts back out of it, to the locker room, where he's talking to Stiles. It's warm here, not burning. It's safe, but somehow terrifying...Because he's reaching a fast conclusion. His dream is not a dream, and reality is the dead woman about to kill him._

" _It's real." He cups the gaping wound at the center of his chest. "This is real."_

" _That's right, Derek..."_

_She steps through the smoke, and he's struck by how much she looks like she's always looked, up until the moment her throat was ripped out. Healthy, eyes gleaming with excitement, strong. Stronger than she's ever been before._

" _...And if seeing me is a surprise," she adds, with a cock of her head, "then watch this."_

_The transformation is practiced and dramatic, the way Kate always is when she's torturing him. Blue-black skin stretches as she lets out a growl from a mouth full of fangs. His subconscious has already put this part together, and he doesn't have the time or the will to question why his mind answers that hanging question using some dream version of Stiles Stilinski._

_He knows how Kate was turned. He knows why she's filled his chest full of poison. He doesn't know how long she's been waiting for him or if her body was ever buried or if she rose from the grave like Peter. But it doesn't matter, because Kate's very existence means he's in for more pain._

_This shouldn't be happening._

_They'd won this night. They'd saved lives. And lost them. But they'd won the game, and he should be allowed to rest. That should be his pack's reward._

_This shouldn't be happening._

" _Oh, Derek." She smiles, face shifting back to its human form. "We have so much catching up to do."_

" _Kate..."_

_Some part of him, against all logic, almost tells her that something is standing in the smoke, moving in the shadows behind her. His knees hit the floor hard, but he can't feel much from the stomach down, which leaves him leaning back, then forward, swaying like a drunkard from his new seat on the floor. All he can do is watch as she thinks she's won._

_But there's no winning tonight. It's the last thought he has before he sees her face contort in shock, a wet sound following her gasp._

_The shadow behind her has claws, claws that rip into her back and pull at her spine. There's a disgusting snap, and she's swaying along with him suddenly. Kate's body crumples a second later, eyes wide and open, like they were the first time she died._

_Standing behind her is another dream._

_Derek imagines that he's dying, that his brain is giving him what he wants in these last few seconds. Because only in his imagination would She appear, to save him._

_Talia takes another step forward through her shield of fading smoke. Her right hand is slick with blood that drips down the side of her thin dress, but her face is serene, knowing. Exactly the way he remembers her._

_He tries to speak, barely aware of what he's asking, and coughs on the black blood in his throat. She crouches down in front of him, cupping his cheek in one hand, and his world goes gray, Stiles' voice still echoing in his head, asking if he's still awake._

" _Derek," she says, a soft smile at her lips, "this isn't a dream, sweetheart. Now let me see those beautiful eyes."_

_He blinks, his vision clearing, and she's still there. Talia Hale is alive._

Derek blinks, as if to clear his vision, but the world through the windshield is as crystal clear as ever, and just as upside down as it was a few minutes ago. Because there's a ghost beside him, of the boy who was saved.

The world outside is loud as it always is at this time of night, but the passenger's seat is so quiet that it leaves a low buzz in his ears. It's absence, a void, where there should be a voice that never stops. Without meaning to, he gives the spot a sideways glance, and Stiles is still sitting there, staring out the window with a frown on his face.

He doesn't look semi-transparent, like he's fading from reality. He looks solid, like a living person. But there's no smell there, which confuses Derek's wolf senses. And there's no sound of movement or breathing or Stiles-babble, which frustrates Derek's human senses. It's just _wrong._

"I don't know what you remember about last night." Derek lets out a breath with the statement, refocusing on the road. "But I saw you...In a dream, I think. And now that we know..." He trails off. "I think maybe it was really you. Maybe you weren't fully out of your body yet."

Another sideways glance. This time Stiles is staring at him, brow raised in confusion.

Derek grimaces. He doesn't enjoy talking this much, especially in a one-sided conversation, but he refuses to admit he misses Stiles' interruptions.

"I don't know what happened to you," Derek clarifies. "I had my own problems last night. There was an attack. I'm not sure how much Deaton told Scott when he called."

Something in his chest pinches, and he lifts one hand from the steering wheel, rubbing the wound. It's not fully healed yet, but it's getting there. Deaton offered to be the one to go to the hospital, to bring Stiles back to the apartment, but Derek needed to get out. And he isn't sure why the air there feels so stifling now, only that it has little to do with the recent bullet holes and the lingering scent of blood and smoke, and much more to do with the dead woman.

His world is pulling back together again, his mother, the sun at his center, has returned, and everything else will fall into place around her. A part of him thinks that is true, can even see it happening. When he called Cora a few hours ago, told her the news, he was promised she could get a guardian to escort her back to the States. His little sister is going to stay this time, he knows, no matter how much she loves the family she's made in South America. She'll stay because their mother is gravity; she's the Alpha.

Derek isn't sure how he feels about that anymore. If he can trust that instinct. If he can trust any of this. It all feels too much like a dream, and the spirit sitting beside him only intensifies that sense of _wrong._

None of this is supposed to be happening.

Derek clears his throat, starting over. "But there's too much we don't know about what happened. Judging from that look on your face, you don't remember showing up in a locker room in my hallucination."

Stiles leans forward so that Derek has to see his shit-eating grin. Stiles rakes one finger across another - _shame, shame -_ and Derek rolls his eyes in annoyance. At least this particular spirit can keep him distracted from his thoughts. A small blessing at a high price.

"Idiot," Derek huffs, but there's an unnecessary amount of heat at his cheeks that he hopes isn't visible to human eyes. Or ghost eyes. "It wasn't _that_ kind of hallucination. But my point is, from the little information Lydia passed on, you didn't reach any form of consciousness until your body was in the hospital."

He's glad that the stop light is red, despite the deserted streets. He wants to see Stiles' reaction, to know if he's holding anything back, but the boy appears to not know where this story is heading.

"Then the last thing you remember before the hospital is going to bed?"

Stiles' brow is furrowed, and he gives one slow nod before he waves his hand - _go on_. Derek considers staying quiet. Scott hasn't told Stiles how he was found. Stiles hasn't asked before now, but his eyes are pleading.

"I only ask because you weren't found in bed at your house, Stiles."

Derek sighs. He doesn't want to be the one to say this, because he knows what it'll mean. It's the wolf in him that has the urge to reach out, try and comfort, because that's what wolves do for one another, even if he's kept that aspect of himself hidden for a long time now. He's aware, fully, that Stiles is not wolf, but since even before Derek joined Scott's pack, he's felt like the young man is one of them. It's one of the reasons the idea of killing the Nogitsune hadn't been an easy one to wrap his head around. But even if he tries to reach out, touch his arm, let Stiles know he isn't alone, it won't work. Because Stiles _is_ alone. He is unreachable, and that chills Derek to the core.

Stiles just stares back, eyes slightly wet, and he doesn't move to ask Derek to continue, but the werewolf speaks anyway.

"From what I'm told, your dad went to your room this morning, and you were missing. He sent out a search party, and your friends found you in the preserve. They found your body at the Nemeton, Stiles. I don't know what it means or if..."

He lets the sentence fade, because Stiles has turned away, staring back out his window, every part of his posture cutting Derek off. Derek rubs at his own chest, feeling that pinch again.

The light is green. They go.

* * *

Talia Hale is powerful.

That impression hits Stiles before he's fully entered the room, and it's exactly what he expects, knowing that, pre-death, she was the Big Dog among the local Alphas and, _oh-God_ , he makes a mental note never to use that expression in front of her. He follows that note with a scowl of regret that he didn't pull out all the proper puns when the Alpha Pack was giving them Hell.

He sees her, past Derek's shoulder. She's standing in front of Derek's desk, speaking to Deaton in hushed tones, wearing a simple gray shift dress, barefooted, hair dark and wild and hanging down her back. She raises a hand to cut off whatever Deaton is saying and turns to greet her son with a small smile. It shifts her face entirely; hard and fierce to soft and inviting. It's the same magic he's seen in Derek, on the (extremely) rare occasion that the grin on his face has been genuine and not predatory.

The resemblance between the Hales is easy to see, even if he hasn't been around Talia long enough to figure out if Cora and Derek get the attitude from her as well.

Talia cocks her head slightly, and Stiles goes from observing her to being observed. "Hello. You must be Stiles."

Deaton frowns at the space around Derek, looking oddly apologetic to the wall beside the doorway, and there's a check in the category of "People who can't see Stiles Stilinski".

Stiles steps forward, rocking on his toes slightly. "I must be, unless there's another spirit you were expecting," he says, aiming for no-sarcasm and failing. "Uh, congratulations on the 'not being dead' thing."

Talia doesn't so much as twitch when she says, "Thank you," confirming that she can hear him just fine, and gestures for him to step closer. "Derek, will you see Deaton out? I believe we've had enough talk for the day, and I want to get to know our friend."

Stiles knows _he_ would be a bit peeved at being dismissed that way, but Deaton makes with that slow nod of his and gives a wide girth, as if keeping Stiles in mind. Stiles, having already had a nurse pass through him at the hospital, is thankful for the courtesy, but it comes as a surprise when the man hesitates at his side, his back to the Hales.

"Don't worry, Stiles. You're going to be yourself again."

It's a common reassurance, one that Scott and Lydia and even Isaac, after a elbow shove from his Alpha, have given, but there's something grounding in the way Deaton says it. As if it's already fact. Stiles appreciates the effort.

Before he can think to reply, Deaton is gone, and Derek gives his mother a long look before he follows him out without a word. Stiles suddenly realizes how awkward it is to be left alone with a previously dead woman, which, it probably shouldn't be, considering he's been left alone with said-woman's previously dead brother in the past. Fun times. At least he'd known Peter then, having been properly kidnapped by him and all; Stiles is completely lost as to how he's supposed to act in front of Talia Hale or Mrs. Hale or Derek's Mom, whatever he's supposed to call her.

"You may call me Talia."

Ah.

"So, uh, I don't know what I'm doing here, and while I don't meant that in an existential-crisis way, feel free to interpret as you will." Stiles takes a shaky breath. "Derek said you might be able to help."

Talia only stares back at him for a few seconds, and Stiles is about to ask if she's lost her ability to hear him when she takes two quick steps forward in the span of a blink. Stiles is somewhat proud of himself for not falling backward.

"Perhaps," she finally answers. "But I need to know what was done to you before it can be undone. Do you understand?"

Stiles nods. "Yeah, I get that, but the thing is, I don't remember what was done. Or if it was something _I_ did or if it's some leftover awesomeness from having the Nogitsune riding my skin, since, you kind of missed this, but I've already nearly died more than once this week."

"Some I knew, some I was told, either way I am aware of what possessed you. Your current state is a different problem altogether, I'm afraid. This was done _to_ you, Stiles, and not by the Nogitsune, but perhaps because of it." Talia frowns and tilts her head slightly, not breaking eye contact, which Stiles determines would be far creepier if he hadn't already been exposed to common Hale behavior. "And you know who did it," she concludes. "You're hiding this from yourself."

Stiles voice comes out quiet. "I'm not _hiding_ it." Another second of the stare-off is all he can take. "But, I, uh, have some suspects in mind."

Talia smiles sadly and raises her hands, palms up, as if asking for something. "Reach out for me, Stiles."

"You might have missed the part where I'm basically a ghost."

Talia sighs, but there's amusement in her eyes, and Stiles thinks her weird, twisted sense of humor makes her prettier. "You won't be an easy student."

"Student?" Stiles' brow flies up. "Wait, by help, you meant teach? As in teach me to get back into my body? There isn't some sort of magical spell we can use or something? Deaton can't just draw me up an ice bath to fix this one? Why are you my designated Yoda?"

"Most problems caused by magic aren't so easily solved, and if it were something Deaton could help with, he'd gladly do so, but he knows very little about this. I can teach you, because I know the nature of the power that severed your spirit from your body. It was an Alpha's spark."

"What does that even mean? How did - "

Talia cuts him off. "Take my hands."

This is stupid, and Stiles hopes his frown says as much, but there's a growing pit in his stomach that's making him uneasy with the idea of figuring out what the hell happened to him. He was, after all, recently vomited up by himself, which is more than enough crazy for one lifetime. But he can't just stay as he is. He can't. He can't leave his dad, leave Scott, without trying.

Stiles feels panic bubbling up inside of him, and he wonders if his heartbeat is racing back at the hospital or if it's a purely spiritual fear making him feel like all the air is being sucked out of his chest.

Before he can think about it, he reaches out, his fingers curling around hers, and it takes him a second to realize he's not passing through her.

"I can feel you." Stiles blinks, glancing down at their hands. Hers are warm, unnaturally so, or maybe he's cold. It's hard to tell. "Oh my god, I can actually _feel_ you."

Talia doesn't appear in any way shocked, and Stiles can't really blame her for that since she's obviously coping well with the being dead for a decade thing, but _seriously_ it's a big fricking deal because he thought that was _gone._ His hands shake, but he doesn't let go of her, and he's glad no one else is here to point that out.

"And you'll learn to do more," she says, as if to appease him. "But first, Stiles, you need to close your eyes."

"Technically, my eyes are already closed. The ones in my head, attached to my body, and...Yeah, okay, here we go." Stiles takes a breath, reminds himself it's pointless, and squeezes his eyes shut. "Now what?"

Before the question is out of his mouth, he feels himself being pulled backward. No...not pulled. Pushed. _A hand wadded in his shirt, pushing him down when he tries to sit up to turn on his lamp. His head hits his pillow, and he blinks, staring up at the shadow looming over him, holding him down._

" _Don't scream, Stiles," it says. "We don't want to wake the sheriff, do we?"_

_And it leans forward, the moonlight from the window washing over his face. Peter. It's Peter holding him down. But the werewolf isn't wearing his usual snarky grin. This isn't some joke. He looks grim, displeased._

_Stiles struggles to get away and fails. "What the hell are you doing here?"_

_Still, it comes out a whisper, because Stiles' instinct tells him that Peter is right. They don't want to wake his father. If Dad is awake, it means that Dad can get hurt._

_Stiles feels his heartbeat speed up at the thought, because it suddenly occurs to him that this isn't a creepy Hale visit to impart some odd wisdom or foreboding bit of information. No, the look on Peter's face is resolve. Peter is here on a mission, and Stiles doesn't know what it is, but he knows he it's not good._

" _You know, I wasn't planning to do it this way," Peter says, staring through Stiles, as if he's talking to himself. "I was going to draw you out. Tell you that Scott or Lydia was in danger, have you follow me into the woods. But I realized you'd know. Somehow, you'd know I was lying, and you'd get away. You'd warn the others. Because you're smarter than people think, Stiles. You're the one who figures things out."_

_And he does. He knows. Right then, he knows._

" _Peter." Stiles swallows down his panic, trying for calm, collected. Hoping to God his voice isn't shaking, because Peter doesn't see weakness as something to be pitied. Peter is a wolf. "They'll know it was you. Whatever you're planning to do...They'll find out, and they'll kill you for it." Stiles pushes himself up few inches, straining against the werewolf's weight. "My pack is going to rip you apart."_

" _They'll try," Peter agrees, a hint of a grin at the corner of his lips. "And, if all goes as planned, they'll fail...How is it the kids put it these days? Epically? A bit dramatic, but oh-so true. You know, they spent so much time chasing their tails, trying to find out how to kill the fox inside your body...and almost no time considering why you were its host. What that really meant."_

_Suddenly the werewolf is somber again, less proud of himself. "I'm sorry, Stiles. I am. I wasn't lying when I said I liked you. You'd have made a great addition to my pack, but, unfortunately, you have a door in your head. One that's ever so slightly open. And I intend to use it..."_

_Pain. The pain blacks out everything else, and Stiles' world spins. He thinks he's being lifted, carried, but he's not sure which way is up and which is down. The pain brings him back..._

He lets out a gasp, disoriented when he realizes he's standing instead of lying down. Talia Hale's voice sounds distant, as if it's traveling far to reach him, but she's only two feet away.

"What did he say, Stiles?" she asks. "What did Peter tell you?"

Her gaze is intense, and he thinks for a moment he sees the flash of one red eye. Her hands slip out of his, and then he's gone again. Where there's a steady beat sounding with his pulse, where his father's voice is telling him a story.

He likes it here. He wishes he could stay.


	2. Strike a Violent Pose

It's like a scene change in a dream. Only he's not waking up. He's gone, then he's there.

Stiles doesn't even realize it at first, that he's looking out a tall window at a gray morning that's real. And it takes a few minutes still before it catches up with him. The view from the window is familiar; the window is in Derek Hale's apartment. Which shouldn't it be? That was the last thing he remembers before he went away.

"Stiles?"

Sounds like Derek's voice. Makes sense. This is his place.

"I think I was there, back in the hospital. I can't tell if I was closer to being dead, or closer to being alive," Stiles answers.

Derek steps into his view, and the guy's only wearing gray sweats and a tiny puckering of scars over his bare, envy-inducing torso. Stiles recalls Derek saying something, about being attacked. Must have been a hell of an attack if its been over a day and he's still healing. Stiles doesn't want to dwell on any part of that observation, so his gaze lifts. Derek's blinking, looking as dazed as Stiles feels, and his hair's sticking in every direction. Stiles wonders which parallel universe he's woken up to, because what a trip, seeing Derek Hale looking exhausted and almost adorably sleep-faced due to actual sleep and not extreme bloodloss.

Stiles doesn't have it in him to laugh though. He still feels cold, distant.

"Stiles? Are you...with us?"

Okay, maybe he does still have it in him to laugh. Stiles snorts at Derek's question, then rolls his eyes before gesturing down at his spiritual body. "Yes, Ghost Facer. I'm 'with' you. Would you like me to knock twice for yes? Wait...I don't actually know how to do that..."

Derek frowns. "You were gone for hours. Where were you?"

Stiles shrugs.

Derek stares at him a few moments longer, and Stiles is almost certain he's about to be interrogated. But the werewolf only looks away, eyes darting to the front door.

"Talia will be here soon," he says and sighs. "She'll want to talk to you."

"Your mom's not staying at your place?" Stiles shakes his head, realizing that Derek's not looking his way, therefore can't lip-read. But the answer is pretty obvious anyway. "Wow. Dead for years, and she still has better places to be."

"I'm going back to bed," Derek says, and he sounds even more tired than he looks. "Try to stay here."

_Seriously?_ Stiles glares at the man's retreating backside.

"Fine. I'll just be down here. Concentrating on nothing since you don't even have a _television_ to watch, you freak of nature."

Stiles spins, surveying the empty room, and sways slightly when he comes to a stop again, facing the stupid window. He's moved past shock and panic and is suddenly feeling antsy, which is a comfortable normal. He hears Derek's door slam upstairs and raises his voice to a shout. "Which doesn't sound boring at all! You better hope I don't go all _Poltergeist_ on your living room or, you know, just hang out in your bedroom, watching you sleep all creepy Edward Cullen style..."

Stiles huffs, defeated, since he's fairly certain that, even if Derek could hear him, he probably wouldn't get the pop-culture references since he's some sort of hipster-wolf who thinks normal things like entertaining guests with basic cable is too mainstream.

And Stiles is alone. Again. He runs his hands down his face, groaning against his palms in frustration.

"It's good to see you've returned, Stiles."

In a hospital room, he's certain a machine he's attached to just freaked out, because Stiles instinctively grasps at his chest in shock.

"Holy crap, woman!" he snaps. He spins, seeing Talia Hale now standing in the front door, and sobers at her steady expression. She doesn't look tired or wired or whatever a previously dead woman should look like. And Stiles wonders what it would take to actually shake a person like her. "Uh, I mean, Mrs. Hale, Talia. I can tell Derek learned all his creepy non-creeper sneaking abilities from you."

Stiles almost regrets the comment, but, as per his usual encounters with potentially dangerous individuals, he practices the law of 'no take-backs'. Still, the knot in his stomach disintegrates when he catches the amused glint in Talia's eyes.

"I'm beginning to see why my son thinks so highly of you," she replies, stepping further into the apartment, which is when Stiles notices she has a paper bag balanced on one hip. She begins unloading her purchases on the counter...A bag of oranges, a carton of milk, a sack of powdered donut holes.

Stiles does a double take at the donuts. That's just entirely too normal.

"Isn't it kind of weird for someone who's supposed to be dead to be seen shopping for groceries?" Stiles backs up, catching her previous comment. "And I think you have me mistaken for someone else, because I'm fairly certain Derek's thoughts about me come down to how much he'd like to punch me in the face."

Talia ignores that last part. "There aren't many people left who would recognize me."

That's thoroughly depressing. Stiles doesn't know why he suddenly feels like a dick.

"And like you said," she continues, "I'm supposed to be dead. No sane person would jump to the conclusion that I'm actually Talia Hale, even if they did recognize me. Also, I wore sunglasses."

Stiles hesitates, then chuckles. "Wow, was that a joke? From a Hale?"

Talia smiles to herself, peeling an orange with one extended claw. "I'm sorry, about last night. I pushed you too far."

"Is that why I...?"

"Faded?" Talia looks up at him. "Yes. Peter put a great deal of effort into blocking out what he did to you. You must have tried very hard to get past that wall. The effort left you too weak to keep your form."

Stiles swallows hard, filling in the blank. If he's weak, he's not here anymore. He's not anywhere. "I saw...Peter was in my bedroom. He said, God it was something stupid, like that he was sorry, that he needed the door in my head...But I didn't see what it was he did. I don't even remember him taking me out of my house."

Talia shakes her head. "Don't dwell on it," she says, quietly.

Stiles' brow furrows. "Uh, kind of hard not to, especially considering that whole part where we have to know what he did before we can undo it. Isn't that what you told me?"

"I spent the past few hours searching Peter's apartment, hoping to find something helpful."

"He has an apartment? Oh, yeah, he has an apartment..."

Talia ignores him. "I wasn't successful. It seems we're going to have to find Peter himself if we want answers."

Stiles shakes his head. "Then what are you guys doing here? Shouldn't you be out looking for him? He could be in Mexico by now, or Canada. Do we even know if he got what he wanted? I mean, did he want to raise you from the dead, because if so, hats-off, but why isn't he here villain-gloating?"

"Stiles."

She doesn't snap his name, but there's some sternness in the way she says it, and he instinctively goes quiet. Talia sits down her fruit and steps forward, her hand raised. Stiles doesn't have to be asked. He takes it. And he didn't know it, not until then, that the world was blurring around the borders. He doesn't notice how close he is to fading away until everything sharpens as soon as he wraps his fingers around hers.

"Good," she says.

Stiles isn't sure exactly what he did that was worth receiving praise. But he doesn't let go of her quite yet, either.

"Listen to me, Stiles." Talia hesitates, then begins anew. "We will find him. We need to find him, and not just for your sake. But, even when we do...Your spirit is weak. Far weaker than it should be considering that you have a living body."

She squeezes his hand gently. "This connection is me meeting you halfway. It's something your friends don't know how to do. If you want to be able to interact with what's around you, you'll need to grow stronger. I can teach you how to reach."

It comes to him, right then, what it is that's been bugging him. He's been too rapped up in all that's happened to really take notice. "I don't even know you." And it's a scary declaration because he's here, alone, with this stranger, and she's the only one who seems to be able to see and hear and feel him. "Why are you doing this? You're getting this second chance, and you're here instead of, Jesus, Bali or somewhere, living it up with your kids."

Talia cocks her head, as if somewhat confused by that question. "Helping is what my family does. And even if it wasn't, my son asked me to help you. He told me what happened to you, Stiles. What you've survived."

Stiles wants desperately to sit down, so he does. He hits the floor hard and has to take a moment to register that a.) his ass doesn't hurt and b.) why the hell can he stand and sit but can't seem to pick anything up? This has always bugged him in horror movies, and now he's becoming a walking if not-so-much-breathing trope.

"Derek asked you?" he asks, for clarification.

Talia goes back to her fruit. "You're his Alpha's best friend."

"Scott's his Alpha?" Stiles shakes his head but still doesn't quite shake off that line of thought. "Shouldn't you be his Alpha? I mean, I guess dying kills that part of you, but I could have sworn I saw red when you - "

"That isn't any of your concern."

And isn't that a kick to the nads. Stiles blinks at her, dumbfounded, but the expression on her face is clear; she's cutting him off. And she doesn't like this subject. Stiles isn't exactly sure which part of it is pissing her off, but he decides maybe he should quit bringing up her death every few sentences.

He breaks eye contact with her. "Can you show me how to make others hear me? Like Scott? My dad?"

Talia is quiet a moment longer. "When you're strong enough, I won't have to. You'll be part of the world again."

Stiles nods to himself. "Okay, then. Teach me."

* * *

 

Every morning, Isaac wakes with the knowledge that something is missing, but he doesn't know what it is. His momentary ignorance in those few seconds is both frustrating and pleasant. Then he remembers. He remembers her, and his throat closes, and he forgets how to breath.

"Lydia's going to kill me," Scott says.

Scott collapses onto his desk chair, emptying his books out, flipping through his notes, searching for the ones he borrowed from Lydia. Isaac snaps out of his thoughts long enough to smirk up at him from his seat on the bed, where he's pretending to find interest in a car magazine.

"I'm sure she has another copy," Isaac says, feigning boredom.

Scott snorts, stops what he's doing, and drops his backpack in defeat. "She's Lydia. She probably has another hardcopy and a backup. But she's still going to kill me, because I was supposed to go over those notes with Malia, and Malia's going to be over in..." He catches the time on his phone. "Ten minutes."

Isaac shakes his head. "Malia's doing better," he admits.

"Yeah, I mean, her grades could be higher, but all things considered, she's lucky she's passing." Scott blinks at his Beta. "Oh, you mean with the...Her control _is_ getting better. I've had some ideas, about how to keep her from losing it during the next full moon."

Isaac focuses back on his magazine, glad that Scott is sufficiently distracted. It's a twenty-four hour job, keeping his Alpha busy. The werecoyote is helping matters, though. Despite his comment, she really isn't making much progress yet, but her training is occupying Scott's time. Isaac's grateful. Still, no matter how full his plate is, all it takes is glancing at a stack of comic books for Scott to lapse.

Isaac can practically taste the grief in the air, and he looks up, trying to find what's hurting Scott. Scott is staring back down at his phone again, the notes forgotten. He's scrolling through something. Isaac can't see what it is at this angle, but he doesn't have to to know it hurts. He understands his Alpha's pain especially well.

They're both still mourning Allison, so much so that Isaac knows they should probably hate each other. They should probably fight over who loved her more. Who she loved more. But instead there is an unspoken agreement between them, that they won't discuss her last words, that they'll remember and love her silently and together.

"Scott?"

Scott makes a face that Isaac can't read. It's somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "I sent him this text message that night, after everything happened, but he was already gone when...I don't think he ever read it."

Isaac swallows hard. There. That is what his Alpha needs a distraction from constantly. It's been nearly a week now, and all they've gotten are vague messages from Derek or Deaton telling them to be patient. Isaac believes. He truly believes that Stiles is going to make it through, that Derek is too annoyingly blunt about Stilinski to lie about that, but he knows Scott doesn't trust anyone's opinion at the moment.

Scott tells them all to stay hopeful and that they'll save Stiles, but it's Scott who is mourning someone who's lost, not gone. No matter what he says, Isaac knows that, for once, Scott has lost his faith in his friends.

Their roles are so backwards that Isaac's having a hard time figuring out what he should say, what he should do. He just knows he can't do anything to help Stiles, so he has to help his Alpha in other ways.

"Did you check downstairs?" Isaac asks.

Scott breaks free of the moment, then his jaw drops slightly. "I might have left the notes on the couch, when I was looking for the keys."

He's already out the door, flying down the stairs. Isaac moves quickly, pulling the notes out from under the pillow and planting them in Scott's book, where he'll find them when Malia arrives.

Isaac is about to hop down onto the bed again when Scott's phone chirps. The name on the front lights up: LYDIA.

Not Isaac's favorite person, but just seeing her name makes his stomach knot up, because she doesn't call for casual conversation.

"I've got it," Scott says, barely winded, even though he must have practically jumped the staircase to get back up to his room this quickly. He snatches up his phone, answering quickly, and his brow wrinkles when he listens to Lydia. He looks up, confirming that Isaac is paying attention.

Isaac is. He's not sure if he likes this particular distraction though.

Lydia just called to let them know that Jackson Whittemore is back in town.

* * *

 

Stiles feels his whole body trembling a little bit, and he wonders if he looks like he's shaking and jittering, or if he looks as still as usual. He's nervous. Talia isn't here today. The Alpha Hale and Deaton spent the last two days working on something that they won't say is a way to catch Peter Hale, but he's pretty friggin' certain is a way to catch Peter Hale. Or he hopes so, at least.

But, even not here, Talia left a note for Derek, and Derek claims it says he's supposed to move on to the next lesson. No biggie. Well, kind of a huge biggie, but only for him.

"You're making my head hurt," Cora notes.

Stiles rolls his eyes. The werewolf shows her concern in strange ways, but he's come to recognize that she is in fact worried about his predicament. She usually shows her concern by commenting on her own well being. "Learn faster, this is boring" or "My mother is making me do this, so quit wallowing," are her usual terms of endearment.

One night, Talia mentions that Cora and Laura are a lot alike. Derek leaves the room after that. In fact, Sourwolf has been doing that quite a bit, leaving when Talia talks about anything but helping Stiles get stronger. Stiles doesn't mean to be a judgmental jerk, but he's fairly certain that if his mom stepped through the door, running away would not be on the agenda. Cora arrived three days ago, and she's spent more time with Talia, even if her stony mask hasn't slipped much.

"Poor puppy," Stiles says, and grins like a bastard when she raises a hand to smack him then has to let it fall. Cora can't touch him. Or hear him (lip-reading, apparently isn't that hard with Stiles' expressive face). But she can see him. And three days ago, she hadn't been able to do that.

"I'm going to kick your ass when you get back into your body," she says, and Stiles interprets that as, "I can't wait for you to get your body back."

For some reason, she calms him down. Maybe because in the week since this nightmare began, his only true triumph since Talia revealing that she could—and it sounds lame even in his ears—hold his hand, has been a day ago, when, after a few hours of meditation (or playing thumb wars with himself and making funny faces at the werewolves), Cora opened her eyes and could see him. They celebrated by playing a fairly kick-ass game of charades. Even Derek joined in for a while.

Talia told him he'd done a good job and was ready for something more difficult. He didn't know that meant leaving the loft, trying to 'reach out' in places where he was familiar, where his spirit was strongly attached.

Hell, Stiles knows he has himself to blame for being here. He'd been the one to demand they don't go to his house or Scott's house or the hospital. They'd finally decided to try the school, partly because his friends were there. And his dad _wasn't_ there. He in't ready to see if it will work on his dad yet.

Derek walks out of the front office wearing a 'guest' badge, and it's hilarious, because how many times has this guy appeared in school to threaten students or bring the gloom without getting noticed by the teachers? And here he is, all official like, just so he can keep a spirit company. Stiles feels a bit more at ease when Derek frowns at him, as if reading his mind, and shoves past his sister, leading the way.

Classes are in session at the moment; the chatter from the closed-off rooms is dull and constant. Stiles almost imagines he can hear his own footsteps as he walks down the hallway, but it's just the Hales.

Stiles isn't sure what exactly he's supposed to do here. He knows the basics: he's supposed to _reach out_. Unfortunately, Talia's methods weren't the type that could be written down as easy to follow steps.

Stiles stops, before he even realizes where he is. Then it clicks that this is habit alone, and he's standing right in front of his locker. He raises a brow at it, and his instinct is to think he's going to get into trouble for decorating the front of his locker. Only he didn't decorate it, someone else did.

Blue paper flowers are sticking out of the vents of the locker, a few envelopes threaded between them. A small, open card, has a handwritten message inside: "Get Well Soon, Stiles." It doesn't say who it's from, but Stiles knows it's not his friends because they all know what's going on. Don't they? Over the last few years, a part of him has separated from everyone not involved in a certain best friend's transformation into a supernatural creature. He thinks back, but still has a hard time imagining anyone who'd leave him a card. Unless Coach made them.

Stiles snorts. Nah, couldn't be Coach, or it would have read, "Get Well Now, Bilinski."

"Someone's popular," Cora says, softly. She flicks the top of the small, open card, reading something. "Who's Danny?" She cranes her neck to look at one of the others. "This one says 'Malia'. Don't tell me you have a girlfriend..." And she actually laughs, as if that's an impossible conclusion.

It rattles some part of him, and he doesn't even open his mouth to answer. That's a hell of an explanation, and he can't quite wrap his head around why no one has told Cora yet. Have they even mentioned the werecoyote to Talia? Should they? Stiles moves on, not really interested in having her open the other envelopes or seeing what else is inside.

Derek looks as if he's purposely ignoring them, so that answers the question as to whether or not he's planning to tell his sister about their cousin who doesn't know they're cousins. Instead, Sourwolf peeks in through a door's window and his frown somehow becomes even deeper.

"Maybe we should find Lydia first," he says.

Stiles agrees, but he can't stop that part of himself who wants to look inside the room. So he slips through the door. It's a trick he learned completely without help, but Talia says that's more about being weak than being strong. Strength means using the knob apparently.

That conversation flees Stiles brain when he realizes Scott's sitting in the front row of desks, Isaac one seat over, looking pissed that they're not further from the teacher. Both the werewolves glance once at the room's door, and Stiles is certain they hear Derek outside, but neither of them make a move.

So Stiles makes one. "Scott?"

It's maybe not the best time, but Mr. Novak is concluding his statement at the front of the room, and telling them to read their next passage silently. Stiles isn't sure if he's going to be able to hold on to this sudden willingness to be here, standing in front of his best friend.

Stiles leans down slightly, so he's at eye level with Scott, who's still staring at something on the chalkboard. It's so bizarre, being so close, without anyone really seeing him.

"Scotty, listen, I know you can't hear me, but there's some part of you that knows I'm here. You've _got_ to know I'm here. And I need you to be willing to reach out to me, okay? I know that sounds all new-agey, but I'm serious, dude. I really need you to want to see me. Meet me half-way, okay? If a bunch of grumpy Hales can pull this off, then so can you."

Stiles closes his eyes, concentrating. And he finds that warmth Talia taught him to seek out, that lifeforce radiating from the other person. A little tug, just the right sort, is all it takes. The other person does all the rest.

"Scott, come on, man," he mutters.

He feels a pull on his whole being and hears a short, muffled gasp. Stiles barely resists the urge to punch the air and smiles, victorious. "I knew you could..."

His voice trails off when he realizes Isaac's the one staring at him, eyes comically wide and mouth hanging open slightly. He should be happy. Stiles knows he should be damn near ecstatic that another person can see him now.

But he's not. Because it should be Scott. Why can't his best friend in the whole damn world see him? Hear him? Feel him? Scott should be able to contact him better than anyone else, even Talia says so. So why the hell isn't he even trying?

Scott raises a brow, staring at Isaac, clearly confused.

"What's wrong?" Scott whispers.

Isaac open and closes his mouth. "Stiles," he hisses, finally.

And Scott looks just as confused as he was twenty seconds ago.

Stiles feels his frustration building inside of him, and it can't get out. "Damn it, Scott! Why are you ignoring me?" he snaps and slams his fists down.

The desk rattles with the impact, and Scott jumps out of his seat, drawing every eye in the room. Isaac follows his lead, looking from Stiles to the desk as if he's just watched the birth of a unicorn.

Stiles can't take this anymore. He walks back through the door, and the walk turns into a run. He's barely aware of Derek and Cora watching him, and he doesn't stop to see if they follow. Somewhere behind him, a door opens, and Stiles just doesn't give a shit if he's confused the hell out of a bunch of his classmates, because his give-a-fuck is suddenly at an all time low.

Because Scott can't see him. Because Scott doesn't want to see him.

Certain he's gained enough distance, Stiles storms into an empty classroom, only coming to a hault when he realizes he's trapped himself. Not that at it needs to be empty, because he could be standing in a crowded auditorium and still be invisible. The thought enrages Stiles even more, but the anger collapses into something foul and heavy. He folds forward over the front of the teacher's desk, holding himself up on shaky arms, and he can't breathe.

He closes his eyes, tries to imagine being somewhere else, being back in his body, because if he can disappear for just a while, maybe everything will be better when he comes back. But he can't. And he's pissed. Because he still can't take a breath, and he pictures his dad visiting his hospital room and finding monitors going crazy and a doctor shoving a tube down his throat and...

Stiles sucks in air, trembling from his shoulders down. His eyes are on fire and his throat hurts, but he's in control again, telling himself to focus on something, anything other than the panic-inducing images still flashing through his head like a broken record.

"Not real," he whispers, blinking them away.

They keep coming. They're proof that he's not okay. He hasn't been for a long time, since before this ever happened to him, but he's been able to pull it off over the last few days. Pretend it's just some random event with a beginning and an ending. Pretend that he's going to reach any conclusion that involves everything being put right again.

He can't. He can't.

So he makes a visual catalogue. Classroom. Desk. On the desk, an empty water cup from the cafeteria, but no coffee mug. Teacher's probably on a break from his break. Graded essays are in a neat pile to one side next to a yellow notepad, with a short list of office supplies written on the top sheet. There are no pictures. Nothing personal, but for a small wooden angel, carved to look folksy, probably a gift from a student. Stray paperclip.

It doesn't help, and the frustration is turning inward instead of outward, because he knows he can't blame this entirely on Scott. Scott isn't the one who got into another mess, and Scott didn't do this. Scott's his brother, and Stiles can't stay mad at him, so he's mad at himself.

Stiles lashes out with one arm. The papers fly through the air, as if in slow motion, fluttering back down to the floor. The notepad's in pieces now, the wax spine broken, and its sheets are spread halfway across the room.

Everything is still again, and Stiles forgets to be angry for a moment because it's sunk in that he was holding the desk and that he made this mess and that, for a second, his hands were _real_ and he could use them.

He collapses down to the floor in relief, staring down at the scattered pages. There's a pen that's rolled to a stop a few feet away, and he reaches out for it. His fingertips touch its cool plastic surface, but he can't get it to move. So he stops. Focuses. Too hard. He feels the pen crack beneath him, gel ink spilling over his fingertips, and on instinct he closes that hand into a fist, trying to hold on to it. The ink covers his palm and he turns it down, pressing it into the closest sheet of paper.

When lifts it back up, his hand is clean again, as if he'd never spilled a drop on him, but the handprint remains on the yellow sheet.

His handprint. It looks like a sign of life to him. He lets out a hysterical laugh and it turns out to be a sob. He pushes it down, shakes his head, and tries to dip his fingertips back into the black puddle of drying ink.

He hears the classroom door open behind him, and from the quiet footsteps, he knows it's Derek. The werewolf doesn't say a thing, but Stiles watches him from the corner of his eye, sees the man take a few steps inside then sit down, back against the front of the metal desk. Derek's watching him, too, but he's facing the wrong direction, so he can't see Stiles' lips move.

"Since Mom...I've always been able to rely on two people to be there, you know? Dad and Scott. They're like my whole world, but I can't face Dad. I can't put him through more than he's already going through. But Scott's supposed to always be there. The past few years, though, it's like he's pulling away. When he was with Allison, sometimes when he's dealing Isaac or you guys. And I get it, that's growing up. He's got responsibilities now that he didn't have before. He's got pack. But I used to watch his back when he was just Scotty, and he used to watch mine. And the guy's my brother and I love him, but we're not where we used to be, and I can't help but think...Maybe he doesn't want to see me. Maybe that's why everyone but him seems to be able to figure it out."

Stiles is quiet a moment before he realizes his cheeks are wet and rolls his eyes, embarrassed. "God, I'm so glad you can't hear me now...Friggin' Derek Hale." He dips his fingertips in the ink again and puts them against a clean sheet. It's drying already, and everything smudges, but he keeps drawing. "Bet you'd never guess I'd be spending some time as your roommate, right? Don't worry, I get that this, I don't know, this thing between us. This whole friendship thing. I get that it's temporary. When I go back to being Joe Human, you go back to your stack of werewolf problems, and you'll get your mom back to yourself. But I..."

He trails off and swipes one hand at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hears Derek shift slightly, sit up a bit straighter, but Stiles doesn't want to look at him. Instead, he stares down at the ink splattered sheets of paper, at his own rudimentary attempt of a triskelion. It looks enough like the tattoo on the werewolf's back to make Stiles want to cover it up, but he leaves it sitting next to the handprint. The paper wrinkles as the ink dries.

"I just want to thank you," he says, finally. "For not leaving me. Even though I'm not your problem, and I know you wouldn't even care if I wasn't Scott's best friend. I'm just sorry. I'm sorry we're not...friends whenever there's _not_ someone trying to kill one of us."

"Stiles?"

Stiles startles from the interruption and turns, brow raised. Derek is still sitting, but there's some strange spark in his eyes, and he smiles slowly. It's so out of place that Stiles wonders if he's missed something.

"Stiles, I can _hear_ you."


	3. It's a Vicious Little World

They reach the gravesite, and they're quiet for a long time. Standing at his side, holding his hand, is not half as awkward as Lydia expects. She wants to comment on how it feels like he never left, but other than the way his hand fits around hers, everything feels different. For starters, she doesn't feel like she'll break when he leaves again.

She gives the grave a sad smile, because she knows Allison would approve of that distinction. But Lydia isn't so certain her friend would agree with the other thought, nudging at the back of her mind, but as Allison's decidedly absent, she can't argue.

Lydia looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and she accepts that thought as truth; neither she nor Jackson are the people they used to be, back when they were dating. In both a figurative and literal sense.

There's no going back.

"There was a funeral right after... A private one, right before Mr. Argent left town. If I'd known you were coming back— "

"I didn't want to go," Jackson says.

"Oh."

Lydia swallows hard, because she knows the difference between Jackson being cold and Jackson putting on a mask. And she knows the reason he would never have went to that funeral was because that mask would have slipped.

"Banshee. Should have known what you were," he says, jaw hard, eyes ahead. There's some sort of joke there, but his tone is too frosty. "You only call when someone dies."

"Don't." Her voice is hard, no room for argument, and, after the shit he put her through, she's proud of it. She doesn't need to point out that he never calls her either. Or that it's better that way. "Not in front of Allison."

Jackson shifts his weight. He looks handsome in a button-up and slacks, but there's something lacking in the expression on his face. "I'm sorry."

Lydia closes her eyes, blocking him out for a moment. It's silent, other than the sound of him breathing, birds scattering in the nearby trees. It's early in the day, and she's missing school, but so be it. She's just glad that it's still quiet, even if a part of her had thought she'd be able to sense something here, in this place.

"I knew she was going to die."

Jackson squeezes her hand, and it's better than the spoken apology. It's more Jackson. Still, there's something off about him. He's been different since his death, but this...This version of him is more closed off.

"What happened in London?"

"It was boring," he says, instead of answering. It's a lie, but Lydia tucks it away for later. The mystery can wait.

"Are you with anyone?" he asks.

Lydia can't help the choked laugh that slips out of her. It almost turns into anger, but she holds it back. "Jesus, Jackson," she breathes, and shakes her head. After a moment, she shoots him a look, and she knows he's already aware that they aren't getting back together, that this is a desperate attempt to change the subject. But it's not a very good one.

"I was," she answers. "With someone. He's not...here anymore." The omission comes easily enough, and with it, just a bit of shame. She doesn't want to admit she's watched every person she's fallen for die, even if at least one of them came back.

Jackson snorts, as if he doesn't care. "I half-expected you to take pity on Stilinski, since you've joined their merry band of misfits, but I suppose you still have decent taste."

It hits her hard, and she pulls away. She knows he's trying to insult her, but she doesn't care. He's said worse in the past, when he was hurting, when he was trying to push her away. She used to care more. But the comment serves as a reminder more than anything else, of just how close she is to losing another friend.

She hasn't told Jackson yet.

He senses something because he moves his hand to her shoulder, forcing her to face him. Maybe he hears her heart skip a beat. She isn't exactly sure how the werewolf thing works, despite her research, but there's a touch of worry in his gaze.

"What aren't you saying, Lydia?" he asks.

"You haven't been to see Derek yet." At his frown, she nods her own confirmation. "He'll be able to explain it better, but...I should tell you before you go. About Stiles."

* * *

 

"Derek, you have to trust that Talia has this under control."

Derek stares across the table at the man, as he works. The terrier is still, but alive, half-open eyes on the werewolf instead of its doctor. Deaton goes about his business without looking up, and Derek takes that to mean that, even if the man isn't lying outright, he's still holding back.

"That's not an answer," Derek says, trying to hold down the growl at the back of his throat. "Are you or are you not any closer to figuring out what's wrong with Stiles? Because, to me, it doesn't look like you or my mother are doing much of anything to fix this."

Deaton does look up at that comment, his eyes sharp and commanding, but he keeps his voice calm. "You haven't seen the results you were looking for. That doesn't mean we've been inactive." He glances back down, his tone a notch lighter when he speaks again. "I find it commendable, how dedicated you are to helping Stiles. I didn't even realize the two of you were friends."

Derek doesn't so much as twitch. He wants badly to leap for the man's throat because he's sick of hearing surprise from people. As if he's some heartless monster. As if he doesn't owe it to the human to help. He's not Peter...That thought is enough to turn that anger inward, and Derek loses some of his fire. He may not be Peter, but he's the one who let his uncle have a second chance, who didn't finish him for good. If it had, maybe Stiles' body wouldn't be in a hospital. His mother...His mother had even said as much, when Stiles disappeared that first night. And that memory brings with it enough guilt to make his shoulders hunch, his gaze fall in defeat.

"He's suffering," Derek says.

Deaton sighs. "He's survived worse, and he'll survive this."

"How can you be so sure?"

Deaton shrugs. "Faith in the right people," is his simple answer. Derek wants to snap at him again, but before he has a chance, Deaton is talking, his voice casual, as if they're discussing the weather. "I hear that Mr. Whittemore is back in Beacon Hills. How is your young Beta?"

Derek squirms at the question. "Still a snake with fur," he bites out.

Jackson...Derek isn't sure how Jackson is, actually. He's had exactly one meeting with Jackson since he's arrived back in town, and it mostly turned into Jackson pointing out everything Derek has done wrong over the past year, including losing his spark. Which Derek doesn't count, because Cora is alive. Leave it to Jackson not to see it that way, to call him useless in his own home. The young werewolf's biting tone left Derek pissed, pissed enough to lead him here, actually. Derek snorts at that realization. He somehow doubts that was Jackson's intention.

"Hmm," Deaton hums, moving back to examining the dog's ribs. "I seem to remember Scott saying you'd helped Jackson after his transition, before he moved away."

Derek scowls, pushing off from the table. On his list of stupid life decisions, Derek rates giving Jackson the bite fairly high, but he feels like pack and...Derek is done with this topic. "Quit changing the subject, and Jackson isn't my Beta. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not anyone's Alpha. Deaton, why aren't you talking to me?"

"Because I asked him to keep you out of this."

Derek freezes at the sound of his mother's voice. He hadn't sensed her presence in the building. He hasn't been able to sense her much at all actually, and it's left him with the uncomfortable feeling that she's more ghost that living, even though he's held her, hugged her, cried against her shoulder. Still, the way she moves, he sometimes doubts she's really there at all, that this isn't some dream.

Her words catch up to him, and he turns. "Asked or ordered?"

Talia doesn't answer. "He's my emissary," she finally says. "We have work to do. Work that doesn't involve you, Derek. You need to leave."

Derek catches a scent and looks over his mother's shoulder to see Cora standing in the doorway, staring at the group with wide eyes, as if she's expecting a fight. As if coming to a decision, she swallows hard and steps forward, holding a hand out.

"Come on, Derek," she says. "Let's go."

He takes the offer, and she pretends not to feel the claws he can't quite control digging into the back of her hand as they walk out.

* * *

 

"I just can't understand how they can see you, but I can't. I was the first one to hear you, ergo, I should be able to see you by now."

Lydia slides onto her bed and lays back, strawberry waves fanning out around her pillow. She neatly crosses her high-heeled feet and folds her hands over her stomach. Stiles thinks her skirt is a bit too short for her to be completely comfortable, but she's Lydia Martin, and she's mastered the art of not caring how much leg she shows her adoring fans.

Stiles wants to crack a joke and ask her about her relationship with her mother, but he sees what she's doing. Without direction, he walks to the other side of the bed and lays down beside her. A part of him wants to remind her that they don't have time for this, but, well, they _do_ have time for this. Because Stiles has zip on his agenda at just this moment, what with Cora running off to find Derek, who was running off to find Talia, who was (hopefully) running off to find Peter...He just can't keep up with the Hales at this moment. Literally, he can't, because he thinks maybe he's the only spirit in existence who's still relying on riding in cars to get places.

"Well, in all fairness, I was kind of invisible to you long before this whole out-of-body experience."

"Not funny, Stiles."

Stiles snorts, but stares up at the ceiling, just like she's doing. "Kind of funny, Lyds." When she doesn't answer immediately, he sighs. "It's not you, okay. I'm pretty sure, the supernatural beings have an easier time seeing this place between, wherever it is I am."

"I _am_ a supernatural being."

"Yes, you're right, but maybe you're still, I don't know, 'new'? Or not supernatural enough?"

"What, because I don't sprout fur and claws, I'm not allowed to see you. It's stupid."

The judgment is passed with finality, and Stiles is certain that arguing any further won't help matters. "Maybe it's me," he says, instead. "You still make me nervous."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Lydia is smiling, pleased with the answer. "I don't know why," she says, "I don't give you gooey eyes anymore."

Stiles rolls his eyes at that. He absolutely did not get gooey eyed around...Okay maybe he did. It's like a hammer drops in his stomach when he realizes he can put a finger on the day he realized they wouldn't be together.

Lydia hums to herself, as if musing. "It was the day I kissed you."

"Are you a mind reader?" Stiles asks, only half-kidding. He lets the question go, though. He honestly wouldn't be surprised if she developed telepathic powers. She was Lydia Martin, and he fully expected her to grow up to cure cancer by day and fight crime in a fashionable costume by night. But he didn't fantasize about making her fall for him, not anymore. She was right. It was the day they kissed. Everything about that moment was perfect. "There weren't sparks."

"Nope." Lydia pops the word. Bubble burst. "Does that mean you're not in love with me?"

"I love you more like this," Stiles answers, grinning back. He's surprised he doesn't feel disappointed. The old him, he's sure, would have been highly confused and possibly berating new him for laying on Lydia Martin's bed without entertaining the thought of making out with her. "We make an awesome team."

"You can keep up with me," Lydia says, in agreement. "So, if you're not giving me gooey eyes, who have you moved on to? You've been spending a lot of time at the Hale residence recently..."

The question makes him sink through the mattress, but he recovers his focus quickly enough, glad Lydia can't see him flailing his arms as he tries to hold on to a physical form. "I'm not into Cora," he states, a little breathless.

"She's not into you."

Lydia's tone adds an extra, _"Boys are stupid,"_ that Stiles can almost hear. He swallows hard, not wanting to continue down her line of thought, because he doesn't want to lie to Lydia about how he's feeling right now. He's been lying to himself enough for both of them. Also, he doesn't want to touch the subject of crushes with a ten-foot pole.

"Stiles, do yourself a favor, and don't wait until it's too late to make a move."

Stiles takes that to mean she's dropping it. He relaxes a bit, concentrating on the touch of her blankets beneath his palms. "Like I did with you?" he says, with a small smile.

"No. _We're_ exactly on schedule," Lydia notes, as if this should be obvious. Then she quiets, just staring up at the ceiling. Stiles feels awkward, turning to stare at her when she doesn't get to look at him. He feels like he's breaking some sort of rule, but he wants to know why she's so sad. "Stiles, can I ask you something?"

"You don't usually ask permission," he says, softly.

Her grin is crooked, fighting a frown. "Do you think it makes me a bad person that I miss Allison more than I miss Aiden?" She doesn't give him a chance to answer, and Stiles isn't sure she wants one. "I cared about him. I did. But this morning, when I took Jackson to visit Allison, it just reminded me of how everything felt like it was caving in when she fell. And when I finally told Jackson about Aiden, it felt different. It didn't hurt as bad."

Stiles reaches out, sliding his fingers between hers. It takes a moment, before he can feel them. A moment longer before he feels her squeezing back. Her eyes are closed down, her long lashes wet.

"When some people leave, it just hurts more," Stiles answers.

Lydia nods to herself. "Which is why you're not going anywhere, Stiles. We won't let you."

"Is that a banshee prediction?"

"It's a banshee demand."

* * *

 

"Bored. So bored. So very, very bored."

Stiles is bored. He announces it to the heavens, multiple times, and only gets glares from Derek, who looks as if he's regretting the newfound ability to hear him. But Stiles quickly realizes the Hale siblings are also bored out of their minds with the current amount of inaction taking place. Well, bored and also looking as if they're on the verge of murder, for some reason that neither of them will discuss in his presence. Before Cora can rip apart the loft, Derek announces they're taking a trip to the warehouse district, where Jackson's been asked to meet them.

It's a short, quiet ride.

Stiles mutters a sarcastic, "Oh joy," when he sees Jackson, already there, sneering at the warehouse entry as if he's discovered a building that's composed entirely of used toilet paper, and the sentiment pretty much summarizes the looks on Derek and Cora's faces.

"The guy's been back in Beacon Hills all of two days, and he's already reminding us of what a douche he is," Stiles comments. "Tell me again why you're bothering with him."

"As long as he's here, he's my responsibility," Derek says, quietly, and parks.

"Why'd you call me here?" Jackson asks, as soon as they get out of the car.

"More space for training," Derek replies. " I want to see what you learned from the pack in London. And you need to let out some of that frustration."

Jackson's face loses its color for a moment, but he recovers quickly enough. "Screw you," he snaps.

"As witty as ever," Stiles notes, only letting the comment reach out to Cora.

She grins, but Stiles can tell it's not because she's proud that he's been able to master the art of being heard by every Hale. Her opinion on Jackson was made clear the moment she first met him. And promptly threw him across the loft. The look in her eyes now says she looks forward to doing it again. Which is possibly why she hasn't complained about this little outing.

Since Stiles realizes that the three of them are going to be beating the hell out of one another and calling it 'training', he doesn't think he'll be missed. They don't blink twice when he says he's going to walk around a while. Derek only grunts in reply. So much for being a decent spirit-sitter. Stiles doesn't want to admit to himself that he's kind of disappointed that Derek's focus is elsewhere today, but this works into the plan, so Stiles calls it a win.

It's nearly an hour later when Stiles has a eureka moment and slips through the wall and into the warehouse. Out of instinct he dodges to the right, just as Cora crashes into a pile of wooden pallets beside him. She's in Beta form and wearing that small, feral grin on her face when she spits blood onto the concrete floor.

"Better," she snaps.

She doesn't look at Stiles. Or see him. And Derek's attention is on flipping Jackson over one shoulder. After another moment, Stiles confirms it. None of them can see him.

Stiles fist pumps the air in front of him. Considering the amount of effort that he'd put into being seen, he was surprised at how hard it had been to turn that effort back on himself to achieve full invisibility. He can't wait to tell Talia. Or maybe just show her. She looked proud of him when he told her about the school, showed her how he could touch objects, manipulate them. He wants to see that look again.

Stiles moves closer, preparing for a grand reveal to show off his skills, and possibly crack a Hobbit joke, when Jackson lets out an enraged howl. The other two werewolves go dead still, staring at him, but Jackson only stays on the floor, knees pulled up, head down. His back is rising and falling, his breathing loud.

"We're done for the day," Derek says.

Cora nods along, her expression losing its enthusiasm. "I feel like a run," she says, taking a step back. "Meet you back at the loft."

Stiles thinks he should probably follow her, in case she notices he's not where they left him, but his curiosity keeps him glued to the spot. And he holds tightly to his control, making sure he stays invisible. It's hard, this close to Derek, because he's one who sees him, has always seen him.

Derek passes by, only a few inches from Stiles, and stops in front of Jackson. After a moment's hesitation, he reaches down, his fingertips on Jackson's shoulder.

"We were fine before," Jackson says. He looks up, and Stiles is surprised at how livid his expression is. "We were fine before I left. And I get back, and everything is different."

"Before you left," Derek echoes, as if to remind him. He takes a step away, pulling back his hand. "You left, and you didn't fight to stay. From the beginning, you made it clear that you weren't interested in being mine, or pack. You just wanted the bite, remember?"

"But that was before everything..." Jackson trails off, then lets out a low growl. "Things were different after I died. After I became a wolf. Don't pretend they weren't."

"This isn't me pretending," Derek replies. "This is me regretting. I trained you, Jackson. You were pack. And then you just left as soon as you father suggested it. So don't come complaining to me about everything changing when you're the one who changed it." He took a breath, letting his chin drop to his chest. "You need to go to Scott. You need to ask him to be your Alpha."

Jackson snarls. "Fuck McCall! I don't _want_ him."

"Well you can't want me!" Derek snaps. His jaw tightens, but he's calmer when he bites out, "You shouldn't have come back."

Jackson isn't looking at him any more, back to staring at the concrete. "You want me gone."

Derek runs hand down his face, sighs. "No, Jackson. I just want things to be different."

"Different," Jackson scoffs. "Sure."

They're so quiet that Stiles is afraid to so much as shift, afraid he'll lose his concentration, that they'll know he was here for this. Derek turns without another word, heading for the door. He stops at the entrance, not bothering to look over his shoulder.

"Give Stiles a ride back to my place," he says, frowning like he wants to say more. And walks out.

Stiles isn't sure when he slipped up, but he knows he did. That he's here and present and both the werewolves know he's been listening. He sits down on the floor, next to Jackson, and waits for the other guy to inevitably bitch at him for being too close or looking stupid or ruining his life, the usual Jackson fare. It doesn't happen, and Stiles can't help but think that isn't a good thing.

"Did something happen, when you were in London?" Stiles asks. "Derek said a pack took you in while you were staying with your relatives. Were they...What were they like? Why did you leave them?"

Jackson pretends he can't hear him. Stiles knows he can. He can tell by the way the muscles in his shoulders tense, the way his breathing slows a bit too purposely.

"Fine." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Be your usual charming self. Ignore me. See if I care. I'm not that interested in your life, anyway."

But Stiles doesn't get up to leave. He sits, and he waits.

"You're an annoying piece of shit," Jackson finally says.

"You're an spoiled, self-serving asshole. Want to play another round of 'state the obvious'?"

Jackson opens and closes his mouth, as if he's run out of steam. Then he turns and looks at Stiles. "You want to know what happened in London?" he asks.

Stiles blinks in confusion, because he expects the question to be full of anger, but Jackson's eyes are empty and haunted. Stiles knows that look because he's worn it before, but he doesn't like to see it on someone else, even someone he used to profess to hate with all his guts.

Jackson stands up, hands in fists at his side. "I got what I deserved," he answers.

Stiles doesn't ask any more questions.

* * *

 

The paper is wrinkled from drying, the image smudged and messy, but Stiles can't help but smile when he sees his 'drawing' on the refrigerator, a magnetic bottle opener tacking down one corner. It's the triskelion, from his visit to the school. It's days old, so he's not sure where it's been this whole time, but he knows on instinct who put it up.

Stiles reaches out, his fingertips tingling as he touches the sheet. Derek. Derek put this up for him. And Stiles isn't sure why that stirs up a mix of emotions he's not used to feeling.

It feels like he's been here, staying at the loft, for longer than ten days. It's the longest he's ever been away from his father, and guilt feels like broken glass in his stomach when he thinks about how it's probably felt like an eternity for Dad. That guilt only intensifies into shame when he realizes it's not been as terrible as he'd imagined it would be. That first night was agony, and he isn't in a good place now, but it could be so much worse. Being trapped in this between, it's Hell, but maybe Hell's bearable with decent company.

Still, despite the moments that seem normal, the smiles and the jokes, the bickering, he can't take it for much longer.

This will end soon, one way or the other.

Stiles steps away, and there's a sound at the entrance, footsteps and raised voices. Stiles moves out from behind the wall separating the kitchenette from the open floor of the loft.

The voices get louder and something bangs against a wall. For a second, he thinks maybe it's Jackson, who hasn't spoken to him since he dropped him off at the loft yesterday afternoon. Jackson, who was pretending he never said the things he said. Only, Stiles recognizes the voices before he ever sees their owners, and it's not Jackson this time.

Scott bursts into the loft, face flushed with anger, and Derek storms in behind him, grabbing at his arm.

"Don't, Scott!" Derek tries to pull him back. "You don't know what you're talking about!"

Scott's eyes flash to red, and Derek lets go. "Tell me that you didn't know what your mother was up to, Derek. Tell me you didn't know."

Derek's brow furrows in confusion and he holds his hands out in submission. "Scott, you're not making any sense."

"Let me see Stiles," Scott snaps. He turns his head, calling toward the upstairs. "Stiles!"

Stiles is two seconds away from finding the shout hilarious when Derek turns and locks eyes on him. But Derek doesn't call attention to Stiles, doesn't tell Scott he's already in the room. Derek just lowers his eyes.

"What's going on?" Stiles asks.

He gets no answer right away, other than the sound of Scott shouting out again.

"Is he here?" Scott asks. "Is he here with us?" He doesn't wait for an answer, shaking his head. "It's been over a week, Derek. Over a week, and nothing has been done to help him."

Stiles wants to hop to Talia's defense, but the look on Derek's face keeps him quiet. He just stands, watches, listens. A part of him doesn't want to hear whatever it is Scott has to say.

"Isaac and I have been searching the town, searching the woods, for days, trying to find out where Peter is, and Talia hasn't been there. Not once. Either she's not looking, or she's helping to keep him hidden. Which is it, Derek? Because she's not helping, either way. And she _can_."

Derek's jaw sets and his nostrils flare. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Actually, I do." Scott's eyes narrow on the other werewolf. "You're the one who doesn't know what's going on," he continues, his voice lower. "Derek, I went to Deaton's. Talia was there. I didn't hear much before she sensed me, but I heard enough. She's probably on her way here to lie her way out of it. That's why I need to talk to Stiles. He needs to know she's not trying to help him."

Derek blinks as if he'd just been slapped. "What did they say?"

Scott takes a step closer. "She's not an Alpha. And neither is Peter. But they're both sharing that spark, that power...And if Stiles wakes up, if he wakes up she'll never be an Alpha again."

"Only one of her eyes is red," Stiles says, and almost chokes on the words. He shakes his head. "No...Scott's wrong. Derek, do you hear me? _Scott's wrong_. Derek, say something!"

"You're wrong, Scott," Derek says, his voice low. He lifts his eyes and they're shining blue and fierce. "You're wrong. She won't come here to deny it. She wouldn't bother. Because she doesn't have to wait long to get what she wants."

Stiles' mouth drops open, but he doesn't get a chance to reply, because the words sink in. Doesn't have to wait long?

"You've been to the hospital?" Scott asks. Whatever fire was lighting his rage seems to be dying out. He looks like he's on the verge of collapse when Derek nods once. "They put him on a ventilator, Derek. Mom says his body is too weak, that sometimes that's why people slip into... He can't breathe on his own anymore." Scott's eyes are bright with tears. "My best friend can't _breathe_."

Derek can't look him in the eye. "Melissa said it was just a precaution. She said, it's just to make sure he..." Derek loses the sentence and lets out a shallow breath. "I'm sorry."

"I can't lose him." Scott turns away from Derek, and Stiles can see his face. It nearly breaks him, looking into Scott's eyes. "I can't."

Stiles barely notices the movement. Once second Scott is across the room, and the next he's right in front of him. "You can see—"

The words don't get out before Scott has his arms wrapped around Stiles. Stiles throws his arms around Scott just as quickly, almost afraid he'll pull away. "You can see me?" he says again, even though it's a stupid question, because Scott can obviously feel him, and that's all that matters.

Scott's shaking, or at least Stiles thinks he is until he realizes he's the one trembling. "I'm here, Stiles. I'm here, and we're going to fix this, okay?" Scott's voice drops off, almost too low. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

"Doesn't matter," Stiles assures.

Derek gives him their minute, but it still feels like he's cutting them off too soon. "We need to find her," he reminds them. When his voice returns, it's more urgent. "Scott, we have to find Talia. If she doesn't want Stiles to wake up, there's one way to make sure he never does."

Scott's eyes widen. "His body."

He pulls his phone out. "We can call the Sheriff, get some people on watch at the hospital and..." The phone is already ringing in his hands, and Scott stares down at it, as if confused. "My mom's calling."

Stiles pulls away. "We're too late, aren't we?"


	4. Steady Hand

It's dark, the moon is high but not full, and to the rest of the world, it's a fairly normal night. Except for the part where it isn't for Stiles Stilinski, because his body is missing. The body he's not currently inside.

"How could it be gone?" Stiles says. And he's pacing the room. Which is a large room. Rather nice, if a bit too clean for his taste. And, why shouldn't it be? The Whittemore family can afford to give their teenage son a flat screen and Ralph Lauren sheets, or whatever the Hell it is that rich kids like in their too-clean rooms. Frankly, Stiles has never wanted to spend enough time in Jackson's room to notice how nice his goddamn bedding is.

He doesn't want to be here, but it's where he was left, when the calvary got the call and ran out. The call. The one where Melissa says his bed is empty. And no one saw a werewolf sneak a friggin' body out of the hospital. That call.

"Shit, shit, _shit_! Shouldn't I be able to feel that it's moving or something?" Stiles waves his arm at the window. "And I should be out there, looking for _me_ , with everyone else? Why am I even here?"

"Because you'd do something stupid if you were there," Jackson answers, lounging back against his headboard as if he doesn't have a care in the world. The dick even has a Calculus book sitting on his lap, which means that sometime since he's arrived he's rejoined the public school system. "And I don't know why you're complaining. I'm the one stuck babysitting you."

"Yes, poor you, Jackson, being forced to sit on your ass." Stiles sneers when Jackson reaches over to turn up his i-pod speakers. "Did your last pack ask you to do such difficult tasks, too? Is that why you decided life was too hard in London and came running home?"

Stiles stumbles when Jackson jumps up off the bed. The book hits the floor hard. Stiles hits the floor harder, then scrambles back when he realizes that Jackson's still approaching.

"You shut your mouth!" Jackson growls through a set of canines, looming over him. "You don't know shit, Stilinski."

Stiles raises his head defiantly. "Then why don't you explain it to me, douche nozzle. Apparently, I'm probably going to die sometime in the near future, so it's not like I'm going to tell anyone you got kicked out of your old pack."

"I didn't get kicked out! I left. I left because I heard about Allison. You know, our friend? The one you killed."

The world is spinning. Stiles tries to scoot away and fails when Jackson blocks his way. Jackson drops down to one knee, leaning in to stare at the side of Stiles' face, and he flinches as if he's been hit.

"You're bleeding," Jackson says, swallowing so hard his whole body sways slightly with the effort. "Your mouth."

Stiles can taste it now, the metallic splash on his tongue, blood dripping from a busted lip. He thinks maybe he bit it, when he fell, then remembers that isn't possible. Stiles reaches up, tries to touch it, but his fingertips come away clean. He tries again and fails. It's maddening.

Jackson grabs hold of his fingers to stop him, and they both stare down at their hands, surprised at how easy it is to touch. Neither of them pull away, and the world stops spinning.

Strength from contact, one of the things Talia taught him.

"You must be hurt, wherever you are," Jackson says, after a moment.

"Yeah." Stiles can't focus though. "Or I'm dead...Do you think I'd know?" He can't catch his breath, can't find his voice. When he does, it spills out in a rush. "Do you think I'd know if I was dead already? Do you think I'd be able to feel it? I didn't know I was weaker. I didn't have a clue. What if I stay like this forever?"

Jackson squeezes his hand so tightly Stiles is sure it should hurt, but he can barely feel it. "I shouldn't have said that. About Allison."

"Why not?" A broken laugh escapes Stiles. He's close to hysterics, but he tries to keep himself in check. He's been doing that a lot lately. "Everyone says it's not my fault that she died. That I wasn't responsible for the deaths, the destruction...That the nogitsune did it. But it wore my face. It wore my face...And now, I'm right there again. Only this time, Talia or Peter or whoever the Hell is going to use my body to do something terrible. I don't want to live through that again. I don't want to still be around after it happens."

Jackson leans back on his feet and lets go of Stiles' hand. "I'm somewhat familiar with the idea of someone using you to kill people."

Stiles winces. "Kanima. Yeah. Guess you would be. Does that make me the asshole now?"

Jackson shrugs. "The pack in London was different," he says, quietly.

Stiles doesn't reply, and he doesn't know why Jackson chooses now to change the subject, but he wants to hear more. He folds his legs in front of him, staring intently back at the other boy, and Jackson rolls his eyes, as if it's amusing. But there's no mistaking anything in his tone for humor.

"They had these traditions, these beliefs. They took me in, even though I was dick to them. After training with Derek, I realized I needed to be part of a pack, and they seemed like the only option, but..." He makes a face, as if there's a bitter taste in his mouth. "I should have stayed Omega or searched for another pack, but I didn't want to risk going through the full moon alone. This pack, it didn't believe bitten wolves were as good as born wolves. But any wolf was better than a human. They said the only purpose in having bitten wolves as pack was for breeding."

Stiles sits up a bit straighter and waits for the punchline, because he thinks surely Jackson's just kidding here. Surely this is one of his stupid jokes that isn't actually funny.

Jackson misreads the expression and snorts. "Don't get your panties in a wad, Stilinski. No one forced me to do anything. They just suggested it. If I wanted to stay pack."

"That's not better, Jackson," Stiles says. He wants to grab hold of the idiot and shake him and shout the comment, but it comes out as a barely-there whisper that Jackson pretends not to hear.

"So, I screwed this woman in the pack, got her pregnant, like I was supposed to." Jackson rolled one shoulder, like he'd been asked to put in a lightbulb. Like it didn't matter. "They told me I didn't have to tell my family about it, since it wasn't a human concern. Thank God. I didn't really see the woman much after that, even on the full moon. Another tradition. But the Alpha let me know when the baby was born. Last month."

Stiles leans forward, his voice hushed, as if someone might hear him through the door. "Are you seriously telling me you have a kid in England somewhere?"

"No. I don't." Jackson eyes go blank again, and Stiles sees the mask slide down. "There was a way of testing it...The baby was a human. There isn't room for humans in their pack."

"Jesus, Jackson."

"When I got Lydia's call, about Allison, I used it as an excuse to leave. I didn't tell the pack. I just left." Jackson's eyes widened slightly, panic just beneath the surface. "I thought there would be a pack here when I came back. I thought Derek would take me but...Everything's different. I don't know what I'll do, if my Alpha calls me back."

Stiles wonders if Jackson is doing the same thing he is, mentally counting down the days to the full moon. Stiles is familiar enough with werewolf-related emotional blow-outs to know those nights were particularly dangerous for someone hurting. And despite the fact that on more than one occasion, he's declared that Jackson isn't actually capable of feelings, he recognizes the despair on the young man's face. In fact, he's certain their expressions look particularly similar at the moment.

"Jackson, look at me."

Stiles reaches out, grabbing hold of Jackson's shoulders, letting his hands slide down to his arms. It's a gesture that's never felt quite so strange when Scott is on the receiving end, but it feels bizarre knowing it's Jackson. Jackson, who broke Lydia's heart. Jackson, who learned about werewolves and immediately made the leap between mythological creature and self-serving agenda. Stiles is fully aware that he should even care enough about Jackson to touch him, much less try to help him, but he can't pretend that he himself is innocent, that he's never hurt people. And, he thinks, maybe that's why he can't just tack on a 'sucks to be you' at the end of their conversation and pretend it never happened.

Stiles makes sure the guy is staring back at him before he goes on. "No matter what happens tonight or tomorrow or whenever. I don't care how much you hate him, when you see Scott, you ask him to be your Alpha, okay? And if I'm not there to say it, you tell him Stiles said so. He won't say no. Just, for once in your life, listen to me instead of that over-sized ego, okay?"

Jackson snorts dismissively, but he doesn't say he won't.

Stiles tries to stand back up and falls down, feeling light, unfocused again. It reminds him of the way he felt the first time he met Talia, before she asked him to reach out, touch her hand...

"What's wrong?" Jackson asks.

It's obvious now. "The first night I was like this, I met Talia Hale, and she tried to help me remember what happened to me...She was so insistent that I remember exactly what Peter did, and I remembered some of it, but...I blacked out. I just, poof, faded. And I thought I was in the hospital. I thought I was somewhere else."

"So?"

"So, when I came back, Talia told me I'd pushed myself too far, that I'd weakened myself, but what if...what if she realized how I was connected to her. What if she told me to quit trying to remember so that I'd stay weak." Stiles meets Jackson's gaze. "I think I know how to find my body. But we're going to need to hold hands again."

"You're such a freak, Stilinski." He holds his hands out, nevertheless, palms up in invitation.

Stiles gifts him a grim smile and presses their palms together. Then he closes his eyes.

* * *

Derek's claws are digging into the man's coat, shredding the white fabric lapels, and he holds him in place, refusing to let him move so much as an inch. Only Scott's presence, at his shoulder, keeps him from drawing blood.

Deaton isn't squirming in fear, though. He's giving Derek that same, sad expression he's been wearing for days now. As if he knows something horrible is coming.

"Tell us," Derek growls.

"It'll be over soon, Derek," Deaton says, his voice level, "and then you're going to regret taking this path."

"Is that some sort of threat?" Derek asks.

Deaton shakes his head. "No. Just an observation, I'm afraid. I would hope that you, Scott, would at least believe that I would never wish to harm Stiles."

Scott takes a step forward, nodding to Derek to loosen his grip. "I don't believe you'd hurt him," Scott says, "but I think you'd protect Talia Hale, and she _is_ going to hurt Stiles. I heard what you told her."

Deaton glares at the teenager. "You didn't hear enough, Scott. Talia was never going to hurt Stiles. But judging from the fact that you're here, I have to assume something has happened to convince you otherwise."

Derek let go of him entirely, taking a step back. "You're telling the truth."

"Yes, I am. Now, what's happened?"

"Stiles' body is missing," Scott answers, after a moment. "We came here because we thought you might know how to find him."

Deaton nods. "Yes, you're right. I do. But you should know, if he's gone, it's because Peter took him, not Talia. You have to understand, she's been waiting for this to happen, for her chance to catch Peter. This was the only way..."

"You knew he'd be taken," Derek says.

"And you know where he'll be taken." Deaton shifts his attention back to Scott. "The same place you found him."

* * *

" _I'm sorry, Stiles. I am."_

Stiles wants to tell Jackson to shut up, that it's not his fault this isn't working. But he doesn't, because his mouth doesn't behave. It won't open on demand. That voice. That voice circles back through his head, and it's not Jackson's. It's Peter Hale's.

When his eyes open, _he's staring up at the werewolf, trying to not tremble under his weight._

" _...I wasn't lying when I said I liked you. You'd have made a great addition to my pack, but, unfortunately, you have a door in your head. One that's ever so slightly open. And I intend to use it."_

_Peter slips a hand behind Stiles' head. There's a pinch, then..._

_Pain. The pain blacks out everything else, and Stiles' world spins. He thinks he's being lifted, carried, but he's not sure which way is up and which is down._

But he's expecting it this time, and the panic the agony brings with it isn't enough to pull him from the memory, especially now that he realizes that the pain was never real, at least not at that magnitude. The pain is a warning, one Peter slipped into his subconsciousness to keep him from looking any further. The pain was to keep the memories away.

_He drifts, his eyes opening a sliver, and the world is upside down and backwards, and he's too tired to lift his gaze. He just stares down at the ground, sways to the rhythm of the Peter's confident walk, watches the werewolf's bare feet. It smells like wet earth, like soil, like the forest._

_The forest. He's in the preserve._

_He's almost certain of it, even if he doesn't have a good reason to be so confident._

_He drifts, and his mouth opens with a groan._

" _Shh, Stiles, it's alright," Peter says, kindly. "You're tired, remember? You're dreaming."_

_Stiles' head hurts. It feels like something's scraping at his skull. Or maybe from inside his skull. He's not sure if the thoughts want in or out, but he's vaguely aware of the fact that he's lying down again, on something flat, and his barely open eyes are staring up at the moon in the sky. Peter isn't leaning over him, but he's close. Very close. Peter is in his head._

_Peter walks him down a corridor. It looks like the hallway in his house, but it's too long with too many doors, too bright. It isn't right. Something isn't right._

" _Just a dream," Peter reminds him, by his side._

" _What are we doing?" Stiles asks._

" _We're looking for something, Stiles, remember? We're looking for an open door. And when we find it, you're going to step inside."_

_Stiles wants to stop, but his feet keep walking, keeping pace with Peter. "I don't want to go inside. We're supposed to shut the door."_

_Peter gives him a playful smile, touching him on the back of the neck. When hand pulls away, Stiles can see there's something wrong with his fingertips. They're doused in blood, and the claws are strange. They look as if they've been shoved beneath his nails. Like they're not real._

" _Don't worry, Stiles. You can close the door on your way out. All you have to do is step inside and find something for me."_

_The door. The door is there, at the end of the corridor. It's waiting. It's not quite closed. It's ajar. Just enough for him to slip through the opening._

" _What do you want me to find?" Stiles asks._

" _Oh, you'll see it. It's a tiny thing, really. A spark." Peter stops and jerks his chin up, gesturing him forward. "Go on. Go inside, Stiles."_

_It's cold. It's cold. It's cold inside._

_But it's there, just out of reach, a small thing. A flame, bright red. It matches the eyes of the woman holding it. She holds her hand out, the one not holding the spark, and in the light, he can see her faint smile._

" _You don't belong here, Stiles," she says. "Take my hand, and I'll show you the way out."_

" _But he wants the spark."_

" _It'll light our path."_

" _But then he'll get what he wants."_

" _He won't, Stiles. I promise."_

Stiles drifts. It feels like running. Or flying. But his eyes aren't open, so he can't tell if he's moving at all. He hears voices, two of them. An owl. The wind. It's all background. Stiles blinks and realizes his eyes are already open again, and he's staring down at his body.

Not from far away. He's only standing a few feet away, the body laying across the tree's uneven stump. Or is it a corpse now?

The skin is pale as the white sheet wrapped around his body. Without the wires and tape and machines, he looks like he's in a funeral shroud that's been pulled back for one last glance at his face. There's a blue shadow of a bruise at the corner of his mouth, another on the shoulder, signs of their journey from the hospital. But there's no movement. No rise and fall of his chest, no twitch at his eyelids. No sign of life.

Stiles just stares, overcome with numbness. He was right. He didn't feel it when he died.

"He's dying." The voice that corrects him belongs to Peter Hale.

Stiles looks up sharply and realizes two people are talking on the other side of his body, and they aren't speaking to him, but to one another. Talia turns he head from her brother, as if to stare down at the body, but her eyes flicker up knowingly. She can see Stiles. He can't hide from her, but he pulls back just enough, and Peter never looks his way.

"He's dying," Peter says again. "Suffering. If you were planning to stay, sister, you should have put him out of his misery a long time ago." He cocks his head, a small pout at his lips that's almost chiding. "You're attached. Literally. The once mighty Talia Hale, now has a frail, human ball and chain keeping her grounded. You might look like you're real. You might feel real. Hell, I think I can even smell you. But you're not. Your just a spirit that's too strong for this world."

Talia only stares back at him. "What would you do?" she asks, as if it's some slight curiosity. "Would you let me kill him, take his life from him?"

"Oh, I'm rather hoping you will," Peter says, grinning back. "See, it makes it particularly hard for us to fight to the death if you can simply decide I can't touch you. Plus, he was never supposed to survive your resurrection. I fully expected him to simply fade. Peacefully. But, somehow he managed to hang on."

"Because someone taught his spirit how to be strong." Talia steps closer, and Peter steps back, as if they are dancing. He wags a finger at her, warning her off. "Why, Peter? Why disturb my rest?"

"You shouldn't _get_ to rest," Peter says. All playfulness disappears from his voice. His eyes narrow. "I warned you. I warned you about the Argents. Told you they were a threat. You didn't listen and we died because of you. There should be no peace for you!" He lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, I considered going after McCall to get what I want. And I will, when I'm strong again. But I saw another opportunity open up. You know as well as I do, every born-wolf family carries an Alpha's spark with it. Derek let ours weaken and die to save his sister...If I'd just wanted you back, I could have found a way to tie you to a banshee, but if I wanted the spark _and_ you, I needed more than a window to the other side. I needed a door."

"So you're sacrificing this boy's life for the chance to rip out my throat?" Talia asks.

"Oh, I would cut my way through a crowd," he assures. Peter straightens and gestures out at the body. "But you'll get a fighting chance. Don't be shy on my account. Surely, you were already planning to kill him...No mother would give up the chance to live again, with her children, if the cost was a simple as a stranger's life."

Stiles stares back at her, and he can almost feel Talia refusing to meet his eye. He thinks he should be furious, but he can relate. He can understand the temptation perfectly.

Talia moves slowly, reaching behind the belt of her dress, and she pulls out a wide, sheathed dagger, then lets its leather cover fall to the ground. It's modern and deadly, something an Argent might carry, and its edge catches the moonlight perfectly.

"Good." Peter nods. "Alpha kills made with teeth and claws can have less that optimal results, just ask Kate."

He stares down at Stiles' body, as if studying it. Talia does the same, then moves closer, and eases down to sit on the edge of the stump, as if she's watching a child sleep.

"Finish him," Peter urges.

Stiles wants to close his eyes, will himself away. Be anywhere else. "It's okay," he says, without meaning to. "It's okay, Talia."

Talia Hale is powerful. She can mold the world. She can beat Peter Hale, if she tries. Derek and Cora will have their mother back...

Talia winces, as if in pain, and its the most emotion she's shown tonight. She lowers the dagger, sitting it down between his body and hers. Then she turns her head away from it. "I can't. Derek would hate me, if I killed him. My son was never meant to be an Alpha. But he's made for pack. The boy's his pack. I can't take that away from him."

Talia glances over her shoulder, watching Stiles.

Stiles hears the echo of something Cora once said, _"Losing pack isn't like losing family. It's like losing a limb."_ Stiles nods to Talia. He understands. He understands perfectly.

"Someone has to do it," Peter reminds her, moving closer. "Unless...There is one way young Stiles makes it out of here alive, but I've already pointed out the complications of that plan."

"You're right, you'd pass right threw me, if I wanted you to." Talia stands, blocking his path. "But I won't fade. I won't disappear. I'll let you finish this right now. If you kill me now, the door will close, I'll be severed from the boy, but you'll have the spark. You'll be the Alpha."

"You'd let me?"

Talia reaches out, putting her palm to Peter's cheek. Stiles knows the touch is enough, enough to ground her. Enough to keep her solid.

"I'm sorry, little brother. I'm sorry this happened to us."

"Thank you, sister," Peter says, softly. "That's all I ever wanted to hear."

His whole body jerks as she shoves his claws into her sides and pulls forward. A wet tear of flesh, followed by the muted crack of the bones beneath. When he pulls free, her corpse collapses against the side of the tree stump, and he slips to one knee beside her, watching the life leech away.

Stiles feels the line sever. It's painful, but it's more like ripping off a bandage than being cut. As soon as it happens, there's a sense of freedom, of relief. And he takes a shallow breath. It tastes like blood and mildew, and it's wonderful. His eyes open, and he's laying down, the angle of his head awkward, but he can see Peter kneeling, eyes directed just a few inches to Stiles' side. They're a bright, burning red. And they're too caught up in the body on the ground to notice Stiles moving.

He pulls one hand free from the sheets, and the dagger is there, his fingers wrapped around the handle before he has time to second guess himself. He understood Talia. He understood her perfectly well.

Grunting with the effort, Stiles punches out with the blade, burying it in Peter's neck. And he lets go.

The werewolf falls, but his clawed fingers scrape at the nemeton, holding himself up, and Stiles watches in horror as one hand gains leverage and the werewolf lifts himself back up to his knees.

Peter's face is livid. A stream of blood spills over his lips when he opens his mouth speak and fails. He reaches up for the dagger's handle, and for a moment Stiles thinks he's going to pull it free. Stiles scrambles to move away, but the sheet's tangled around his body, and he's not going anywhere fast. He's too caught up in watching the squirt of blood as Peter slowly pulls the blade out to notice the crash through the woods behind them.

Derek tackles Peter from behind, holding back both of his arms, and the Alpha struggles against his nephew, a wet attempt at a growl splattering blood over Stiles. And Stiles is suddenly pulled from his shock. He reaches out, takes hold of the handle with both hands and pulls it forward. The blade cuts free, leaving a wide, red, gaping smile in place of Peter's neck.

The Alpha's eyes go wide. The spark goes out.

The world stills.

Stiles feels hands touching him, seeing if he's alright. The hands pull away, stained red, but it's not his blood, he wants to remind them. At some point, he's aware enough to realize Scott must have been right behind Derek when he burst into the clearing. Scott's arms are around him, keeping him warm, and the two of them are sitting up straight. Derek is at their feet, staring down at his mother's body. Or the spot where her body was a moment earlier.

When Stiles leans forward, she's gone. She's faded. And Peter is going cold a few feet away, where he's been kicked aside. His head doesn't quite fit on his body from this angle, and he isn't healing.

The world doesn't stay still.

"She had to leave," Stiles says, and he's never seen Derek grieve until now.

* * *

They hold the funeral in the woods, but there's still no body for Talia Hale. In the daylight, they did find the claws, the last physical evidence of her existence. They bury them at the nemeton, and then they drive Peter's body back to the edge of the Hale property. They burn him and put what's left in a deep hole.

Stiles watches. It's going to be a hard habit to break, watching instead of acting. Forgetting he's not invisible.

Derek is by himself, Lydia and Cora are talking quietly and keeping a close eye on him, as if afraid he might collapse. Stiles understands the sentiment, but he knows Derek appreciates not being disturbed more. He needs some time. Scott won't give him that. Stiles smiles at his best friend when he sees him, and Isaac, approaching Derek with a purpose in their step. Looks like the little talk they had about on the drive over, about letting their pack know they're pack, is paying off.

If Derek thinks he's going to slip away without being hugged, he doesn't know his Alpha.

Stiles wonders off from the group, in search. It's nice, not being the focus. He's spent the whole morning being with his dad, Melissa not far away, insisting he go to the hospital. They don't understand how he can be as strong as it he is, how he's recovered. He hasn't told them yet, where he was over the past ten days. He's not sure if he should. He doesn't want his dad to know what he did.

Stiles finds what he's looking for a couple yards away, sitting with his back against a tree, despite the fact that's he's in crisp black on black. Jackson hasn't lost his knack for looking like a grumpy Calvin Klein model at all times. Stiles eases down beside him, arms balanced over his knees, and he takes a draw from the flask when Jackson finally offers.

"This is stupid," Jackson contributes.

"The funeral?"

Jackson doesn't answer, so Stiles assumes he's simply referring to everything in existence ever. Stiles taps Jackson's leg with his foot, to shake him from his thoughts.

"Did you talk to Scott yet?" Stiles asks. He already knows the answer. That Scott didn't even question the request, because he's Scott. "Then why aren't you with the pack?"

"I am," Jackson says. The answer is simple enough, so Stiles doesn't know why it leaves him grinning like an idiot. It's a funeral, he reminds himself. That still doesn't stop him.

Jackson twitches slightly, as if he's waiting for something, and Stiles thinks about making him ask outright, but he takes pity. "Derek's fine. I mean, he's not. Fine. But he's okay. He's hurting. Maybe you should talk to him?"

Jackson snorts. "Maybe you should," he insists, shooting Stiles a glance.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "So, we're both cowards. That's nice to know...But you're right. I need to talk to him...But, God, what do I say? I'm sorry I didn't die so your mom could stay? How do you tell someone that? How do you tell _Derek_ that?"

"You don't," Jackson snaps. He looks pissed, which is a standard look for him, but the level of anger is a notch above average, and Stiles is confused by it for a moment. "You don't ever say you're sorry you're alive," Jackson finishes. "Not even to Derek."

"So you're glad I'm alive?"

"I wouldn't go that far." But Jackson's hand slips down, happens to land on Stiles'. After a moment, Stiles feels a thumb softly scraping at his wrist, letting him know. The touch is warm, alive.

"I'm not going to say I regret getting my body back," Stiles says, with a small frown, "but things aren't going to be the same any more. I was getting used to...I don't know, used to Derek caring. To him being a friend or something... Just feels like there's hole there in life, where he was, but that's stupid, right?"

"I already said that," Jackson notes. "I felt the same way, after Derek trained me. The asshole basically wanted me dead...or the kanima dead...Same difference. Then he goes and trains me, and when it's over, when I leave..."

"How does he do that? What, does he have some sort of magical advanced-werewolf power to get perfectly sane people to have insane thoughts about him?"

"Maybe it's because he's hot," Jackson answers.

It's so blunt, so unexpected, that Stiles nearly chokes on his own tongue before bursting with laughter. "I think you've drunk half this flask."

Jackson smiles back, brow raised. "You're disagreeing?"

No. He's not, and that sobers Stiles up too much, so he takes the flask out of Jackson's hands and takes a sip that leaves him coughing. "This can't end well," he says. "And we can't tell him. We'd screw things up if we ever did."

"No, you'd screw things up," Jackson corrects. "Which is why it's good I'm here." He pauses, long enough for Stiles to turn and meet his eye, see if he's serious. He looks deadly, and maybe too close, but Stiles only leans in.

"I always get what I want," Jackson explains, with a slow smile. "Stay with me, and you will too."

"Now, that sounds like the old Jackson," Stiles says.

Jackson pulls away. "Good. Because he's back. And he's staying."

Stiles feels warm, flushed. It's better than being numb, and it feels like it's the first time he's felt anything but in a long while. "So am I," he finally replies. "I'm not going anywhere."

And it feels like the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story. While I make no promises, there's a part of me that feels there should be a follow-up to this story. Thoughts?


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